


The Legacies We Leave

by ChronicOlicity



Series: Legacies [2]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bratva, Established Oliver Queen/Felicity Smoak, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Implied Sexual Content, Married Oliver Queen//Felicity Smoak, Plotty, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Team Arrow, arrow season 4, arrow season 4 fic, arrow season 4 speculation, flarrow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-03-14 15:43:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 98
Words: 387,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3416279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChronicOlicity/pseuds/ChronicOlicity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After losing Oliver to the League of Assassins, fighting a war for his soul, and dealing with a bout of memory loss (long story), Felicity finally has Oliver back. But things have never been simple with them, and when Starling City faces a new threat, the investigation leads Team Arrow into confrontation with a darkness none of them have ever faced before - one that could destroy them all.</p><p>A sequel to You’re His Hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Down the Rabbit Hole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Context in the Arrow world:  
>  So this is a sequel to You're His Hope, and I realize that it's not gonna be about the League, which makes it a season 3 AU at this point, I guess.  
>  It might get twisty/slow on updating because this is a pretty weird plot, even by my standards. Chapter 2 alone is a sign that this whole fic might de-rail into shamelessly fluffy territory. Bah, where is plot when these two idiots are so cute? Also, I'll try to keep it shorter than You're His Hope — that REALLY went too far over the word limit, and I do apologize for that.  
>  Anyways, if you decide to sign on for this craziness, thank you and I apologize in advance.
> 
> Cheers,  
>  ChronicOlicity

The train whistled into Starling Central, rolling up to the platform with nail-biting slowness. Felicity was already at the doors, trying not to bounce on her heels even though she was itching to hack the train operating systems and bust the doors open herself.

She’d thought it was going to be a quiet night, what with the late train from Central City and a ringing in her ears from a metahuman with both evil genius-level intellect and a sonic scream that could give the Canary Cry a run for its money. Unfortunately, _quiet night_ was ranked pretty high on the list of Things That Never Happen in Starling City, along with Oliver choosing not to suit up.

But that was another thing entirely.

Her phone buzzed for the third time in the last five minutes — SOS from the Foundry. As soon as the doors opened, she was out onto the platform and racing for a cab.

“Felicity, where are you?” said Diggle, sounding a little nonplussed by what she imagined was a medley of facial recognition and traffic cam systems.

Her shoulder was already pounding from a hit-and-run, but she had no time to stop.

“My train just got in — delays, you don’t wanna know — so how bad is it?” Standing at the edge of the curb, Felicity shoved her phone between her shoulder and ear and waved at incoming traffic like she was trying to catch the attention of a faraway ship.

“Pretty bad. I think I hit something I wasn’t supposed to — everything on the screen is orange…” Diggle sighed at something she couldn’t see. “And now there’s a countdown.”

Felicity winced. “Frack. Forgot I put a self-erase protocol on the computers. Okay — don’t panic — how long do we have?”

“I went on three tours in Afghanistan — I don’t panic. And we have three minutes before the system implodes.”

Plenty of time. Felicity hauled the cab door open and barreled inside. “Verdant, please — and there’s a huge tip for you if the music goes way up and you do _not_ pay attention to anything I say from here on out.”

“What — the nightclub?” The driver turned in his seat to give her a look, appraising her in full dirt-on-her-skirt and sans-nightclub-preparedness glory. “You sure you want to go to a nightclub like that?” he asked, sarcastically.

Felicity bit back a sharp retort. Starling City cab drivers were an unapologetically rude tribe, and she was on a clock. “Big, _big_ tip,” she repeated.

The driver sighed, as if resigning himself to another weirdo passenger. “You got it, lady.”

“Diggle? Yeah —” Felicity reached into her bag for her tablet with one hand, buckling her seatbelt with the other. “— patching in now.”

“The Count stole a truck and loaded it with enough Vertigo to cover the Glades — I was running the plate numbers when the computers shut down.”

“Got it.” Felicity dropped her phone onto the seat and adjusted her earpiece, flinching at the sound of gunfire blasting through the comms. She saw the taxi driver give her a weird look in the rearview mirror and cleared her throat, loudly. _Nothing to see here, sir._

All in all, a terrible time to take a personal day. After about three escape attempts, Felicity wondered when the police were going to start using zip-ties on Zyrtle. Count Vertigo was a stupid name, but the number of (successful, by the way) escape attempts was an obvious indicator that he needed to be taken seriously.

Semi-seriously, at least.

Felicity shook off the irritation — and the fatigue. She had to focus. They were still a well-tuned archery/crime-fighting machine. Bad guys still went for the obligatory getaway truck, and she still needed to make sure that the good guys going after them didn’t get themselves killed.

Felicity’s hands flew across the screen in the half-shadow of the cab, her mind already racing through the routines of keeping up with the team on one of their high-speed chases.

“Where is he?” she asked.

 

* * *

 

 

Oliver crouched in the shadows at the roof edge, watching the road below him for his mark. Somewhere off in the Glades, a siren wailed and reminded him that this was just one of many trouble zones in his city.

They had a job to do, and they needed to do it quick.

“Next time,” Roy grunted, his elbows thudding hollow on the back of a steel truck, “ _you_ hang onto the roof, and _I_ get to do the jump.”

“With pleasure,” said Oliver, reaching for an arrow. “Location?”

“Coming in hot. I’m the guy in red.”

Oliver rolled his eyes at Roy’s sarcasm and let out an involuntary breath as he straightened up on the ledge, his back to the road. The night wind gusted behind him, but his training kept him steady as an arrow, balanced to deadly precision.

The truck tore into the street with a screech of tires. Oliver’s foot sent a shower of grit into the street below.

“Ready?” Roy asked.

“Ready,” said Oliver, and stepped smoothly off the side of the roof.

His arrow disappeared into the night, the attached wire arcing into a smooth curve as Oliver fell through the air. Then, because he couldn't have heard anything over the sound of the wind tearing past his ears, the wire jerked taut and he twisted mid-air, directing the momentum of his fall towards the roof of Count Vertigo’s getaway truck.

Roy looked up from a handful of exploding arrows when Oliver landed beside him, bow at his side. “Careful, he’s got a friend and —”

Oliver had already swung down to the side of the truck, and as soon as he did, gunfire blew through the glass window, barely missing his shoulder. The Count took a sharp turn, and there was a brief moment of weightlessness when Oliver’s body swung away from the truck, and he was just hanging on by one arm.

Oliver gritted his teeth as the muscles in his shoulder protested from the strain, his free hand going to his ear.

“Felicity?” he shouted, over the wind.

Thank God she answered — but she always did.

“Why the window?” Felicity demanded. “What is with you and hanging out of windows?”

The Count made another sharp turn, swinging Oliver out towards an oncoming streetlight. “Felicity — maybe we can discuss this —” He kicked off the metal post “— later!”

She said a rude word that was lost over the comms, but he could hear her typing. “Try to get him into 52nd Street,” said Felicity, nearly drowned out by the sounds of late-night radio. “Backup’s waiting for you there.”

“Right.” Oliver wrenched the door free and seized the barrel of the semi-automatic as soon as the henchman tried to shoot, slamming the butt of the rifle into his face. Then he grabbed the shooter by the front of his shirt and tossed him out of the way before swinging into the front seat.

Steel flashed — the Count’s trademark drugged darts — and Oliver felt it pass his cheek before it went out the window in a flicker of metal. He’d had enough experience with the hallucinogenic effects for one lifetime.

“Take a left _—_ Oliver — left!”

The roof over their heads thudded from a landing, and Roy came down on the other side of the truck without warning. Oliver braced himself for the explosion — but the steel around them still lurched when it came. Metal screeched as the steel container at the back of the truck slid loose, because Roy had destroyed the joints holding it in place.

In the confusion, Oliver seized the chance and hauled at the steering wheel — sending the van hurtling down 52nd. The headlights blazed across broken glass and concrete — growing whiter still on a figure in the middle of the road, a flash of pale skin and a dark hood, an arrow trained on the truck, blazing brighter than a star.

Oliver ducked at the distinctive sound of a fired arrow, and a millisecond later, the truck lifted off the ground from an explosion at the front wheels, suspended weightlessly for a second too long before slamming into the ground again. The windshield shattered on impact, and Oliver could only hold on as the truck spun to a screeching halt in the middle of the road.

With a grunt, Roy kicked the truck door open and tossed an unconscious Zytle down to the road, before slumping against the ripped leather seats.

“I think she’s getting better,” he gasped.

Oliver’s ears were still ringing from the explosion when the truck door on his side abruptly opened, spilling broken glass onto the pavement.

“Hey Ollie,” said Thea, breathlessly. “How’d I do?”

 

* * *

 

 

Zyrtle twitched unconscious on the concrete, his hands tied behind his back. Oliver checked the bindings before he straightened up, shattered glass still falling from the shoulders of his suit like rain.

Behind him, Thea made a sound of annoyance and yanked the faded red hood from her head. The short curls at the back of her head stuck up like porcupine quills, but she didn’t seem to notice as she tipped her head back and gulped fresh air like she’d been drowning in the oversized sweatshirt.

“I really need a better disguise,” she said, slinging the bow across her back. “I can’t fight crime in a _hoodie_.”

“Hey,” said Roy, poking at a cut in his sleeve. “That’s _my_ hoodie.”

Thea poked her tongue out at him. “I know, Abercrombie.”

Roy was about to retort when Oliver cleared his throat. “Thea, we’ll talk about the disguise later.” He pointed at the truck, two smoking arrows embedded in the front tires. “How close were you to the truck when it stopped?”

Thea gestured half-heartedly with her hands. “A foot, I guess.”

“If one of Zytle’s men had still been in the truck, it wouldn’t have stopped in time because of the extra weight. Before you shoot, you need to factor in your surroundings and make the assessment for yourself,” Oliver said, evenly.

“I didn’t take physics in high school,” said Thea, “and who has the _time_ to do all those calculations when there’s a freight truck coming at them?”

Oliver didn't say anything, and she sighed. “Apparently, I do.”

Roy snorted. “Told you he was easy to live with.”

“You asked me to teach you,” Oliver reminded her. “I’m teaching you how to stay alive — how a few seconds and a choice can mean the difference between accomplishing the objective and sustaining a serious injury.”

Thea was a Queen, and in the last few months of training together, that fact had become even more apparent in certain instances of teaching she disagreed with. Queens were prideful creatures — he was no exception, as his friends could attest — and sometimes getting burned was the only way for them to learn. But Oliver was determined not to let that happen to his only family left in the world.

Instead of bristling like Oliver expected her to, Thea nodded. “I’ll be more careful,” she promised. “Next time.”

That was another promise of her own, and Oliver nodded, because he believed her.

They all turned at the wail of a police siren, drawing closer.

“Let’s go,” said Oliver, and led them into the shadows.

 

* * *

 

 

When the cab pulled up outside Verdant, Felicity sheepishly handed the driver nearly twice the number on the meter, hoping that she conveyed a silent aura of can’t-tell-you-or-I’ll-have-to-kill-you. Basically, just Oliver’s face when anyone asked a question.

Maybe the flowers on her dress detracted her air of badassery, but the driver took the money with a surprisingly non-threatening air.

“Don’t worry, I have a teenage son and he plays that — uh — whatchamacallit —” He tapped the side of his head, forgetting the word, “— _computer_ thing where everyone’s either a dwarf or an elf. Doesn't get up from behind his computer all day, so don’t worry, lady, you do what you gotta do. Hope you gave those — uh — _monsters_ hell.”

He’d already subsided back into the front seat, counting his cash, leaving Felicity with a highly conflicted set of emotions. On the one hand, she didn't have any explaining to do. On the other, fantasy RPGs weren’t really her _thing_ , as opposed to Tetris and binge-watching on Netflix.

Who was she to turn down a perfectly plausible cover story? Especially since she had a profound lack of talent when it came to fabricating excuses.

“Right,” said Felicity. “Orcs — rangers — and stuff —” Why was the cab seat suddenly so slippery? Felicity grabbed her stuff just before she fell out of the cab, and a couple of giggling (and obviously wasted) girls piled inside. “—Live long and prosper!” she called, before the door slammed.

Felicity flicked her own forehead. “Wrong fandom,” she muttered, hitching the strap of her bag up over her shoulder.

The Verdant sign flickered overhead as she walked into the alley alone, her head bent against the wind and the sound of some very drunk people stumbling out of the club. She’d done this hundreds of times before, but tonight she paused, her hand on the door — the door that led down to the basement.

The adrenaline rush was starting to recede, and in its wake, a dull hum of unease traveled the length of her spine.

It was the uneasy feeling that she was being watched. But when she turned back — there were only clouds of steam, billowing white from the grates in the rain-washed concrete.

Just her imagination.

 

* * *

 

 

Even though Felicity knew that Diggle was going to be waiting for her in the Foundry, she still jumped when he stepped out of the shadows, slamming into one of the metal columns.

“Sorry, sorry,” she said, giving him a quick hug. Her arms were prickled with goosebumps. “I swear, keeping secrets is _not_ good for my nerves — secrets plus alleyways plus weird noises equals _blargh_ —” She made a vague twisty gesture behind her head.

“Felicity,” said Diggle, with his usual pragmatism. “We do keep secrets for a living.”

“I know.” Felicity looked at him from across the table. “But this is just between us, remember?”

Diggle went very still, his palm flat on the reflective steel surface. “You found something?”

Felicity reached for her bag, unable to explain her sudden reluctance. One of the reasons she’d gone to Central City in the first place (besides checking in on Team Flash, ha-ha, Cisco finally got to her with the name) was to look for the file herself.

“Barry got me the file on unexplained homicides,” she said, and hesitated before adding, “the shootings.”

Diggle watched as she removed the flash drive from her purse, holding it up in front of her, a choice for him to make. One last choice. “Are you sure you want this?” she asked. “Barry knows — better than anyone — what it’s like. Chasing a killer who murdered someone you love…what it can do to you. Are you _sure_ you want to go down this rabbit hole again?”

Diggle’s expression was of morbid amusement, as if he’d just thought of something darkly ironic. “You know, I used to think I’d made my peace with unanswered questions – what with a wife who’s a spy, and a best friend who plays things excessively close to the chest.”

“But?” Felicity said, and the word shivered in the still Foundry air.

Felicity had known Diggle for a long time. She’d seen him as a father, as a soldier, and a friend. He’d always been the voice of reason, the one who always — always — knew what to do.

But she’d never seen him look as unsure as she did now. It flickered across his face, the doubts soon overpowered by the constancy of raw emotion — the wounds still fresh from the unexplained death, the loss of someone very dear to him, his very own ghost.

Diggle looked up from his splayed hands.

“For Andy,” he said, hoarsely. “I have to know.”

Felicity nodded, and slipped the flash drive into his hand. “Good luck, John,” she whispered, folding his fingers closed around it — their secret. “Good luck.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S.: (Totally Legit Question Here) what is olicitysquee?  
> P.P.S.: Am I the only one who can't stop laughing at the picture of Diggle and Oliver chained up in Nanda Parbat?


	2. Masks, Daylight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: when writing this, I called it the Shameless Fluff Chapter.

" _What?"_ " Felicity nearly whacked Roy in the head with her tablet, she'd spun around so suddenly.

"Watch it," Roy growled.

"Sorry," Felicity said, hastily, before turning back to Thea. "He _said_ that?"

"Yup." Thea was perched on one of the steel worktables, swinging her legs. Felix was a dusty orange ball in her lap, purring as he slept, oblivious to Roy's acidic glare. "Told me to _factor in my surroundings_ and something about the extra weight — I swear, Ollie is the only person who can do that kind of math in the split second before a truck goes _wham-splat_ on him."

Felicity laughed. "He got a D in tenth grade algebra," she said. "There is _no_ way he could do that kind of friction-mass calculations under fire. Even Barry needs at least five."

"I probably wouldn't mention that," said Diggle, hanging up from his call with Lyla. "Oliver doesn't exactly play well with others."

"Not true," said Felicity. "He plays well with all of us — God that sounded so wrong —"

"Where's Lyla?" Thea asked. "It's nearly midnight — why's she calling so late?"

"Kasnia." Diggle crossed his arms, stoic as usual. "ARGUS thinks they can try and prevent a civil war between the north and south factions."

Felicity looked up from her computer. "I know she's Head of ARGUS and all, but should she really be going out into the field while she's pregnant?"

Diggle gave her a look. "Believe me, I tried to tell her that, but I'm pretty sure she'll keep flying all over the world until her third trimester — and even then she might try to push it."

Thea was still relatively new to the whole Foundry-ARGUS-Team-Flash setup, so she looked understandably unnerved by the thought of a pregnant woman (three months, but still) mediating a potential civil war. "So…you guys taking any baby name contributions?"

"If you're offering," said Diggle, looking amused.

"What about Meghan?" said Felicity, nudging the growing pile of glass chips Roy was picking out of his suit. "It's cute. What parents don't want a cute baby girl?"

Diggle suppressed a laugh. "Felicity, Lyla's only three months along, and you're already thinking about baby names?"

"Carpe diem," she said. "Plus, I have no life, so I have to live vicariously through you and Lyla."

"We don't even know if it's a boy or girl."

"Okay, so if it's a boy…uh —" Felicity groped for a male equivalent of Meghan "— _Megatron_ ," she finished, lamely.

Thea snorted, and Roy sighed in audible annoyance. " _Morgan_."

Felicity snapped her fingers. "Curly fries to the man."

"We'll bear that in mind," said Diggle, placatingly. "How was Central City?"

"Sunny." Felicity pulled at her earlobe, still hearing a phantom ring from the Pied Piper's (Cisco's codename, not hers) fancy metahuman-ness. "And _loud_ ," she said, a little ruefully.

"Hey." An arm encircled her waist and Felicity jumped. Even with the amount of time she spent with Oliver, his way of popping up without a sound still caught her off-guard.

"Hi," she said, and felt her hip press against the table as Oliver gave her a soft kiss on the lips. His skin was damp from a quick shower, and he smelled like laundry soap from the fresh change of clothes.

"God — _must_ you?" Thea groaned, hopping down from the table, Felix swinging in her arms. "Big brothers aren't supposed to kiss their girlfriends in front of little sisters."

Oliver just looked amused.

"Thea —" Felicity reached for her, but caught the sly wink she tossed over her shoulder instead.

"Gotta go," she said, kissing Roy on the cheek en route to the stairs, which she took two at a time. "Verdant's co-manager is a total moron. Don't stay up too late, guys. It's a school night."

The door banged shut behind her.

Felicity's head ached in sympathy. Booming club music, tequila and exhaustion really didn't play well with each other. "I can't believe she still has energy to manage a nightclub after all the vigilante-ing you guys do."

"We all have our masks," Oliver said, looking down at her. "You get better at balancing both, eventually."

Felicity snorted. "Even at Queen Incorporated, you're still the chronically late CEO."

Oliver raised his eyebrows.

"Walter talks," she explained, with a glance at Diggle. "So does Dig."

Diggle shrugged, modestly. "Head of Security. What can you do?"

Even Oliver had to laugh. "Ready to go?" he asked.

Felicity reached for her bag. "Absolutely. Got an early meeting tomorrow."

"Isn't it weird that you both work for competing companies?" Roy said, dubiously. "I mean, I _know_ that Oliver doesn't like that Palmer guy —"

Oliver cleared his throat, pointedly. Felicity exchanged an amused look with Diggle, who was zipping up his jacket. "I gotta go too, the babysitter's still at home. Roy — you gonna be okay here?"

Roy rolled his eyes and pulled the suture through his skin with (feigned) nonchalance. "No worries, I won't drown the cat. I'll just wait here for Thea."

Oliver stopped beside Roy's table. "Keep her out of the prototype arrows," he said, firmly.

"Will do."

Felicity waited until they were halfway up the staircase before she turned back to Oliver. "You do know they've been using the gear Cisco sends over, right? The Foundry has surveillance cameras — and I found one of those frisbee things stuck in a monitor last week."

"If that's the only thing they're doing down here, I think I can live with it," Oliver answered dryly, while Diggle chuckled behind him.

Felicity decided that he didn't need to know about the deserted supply room in Verdant.

* * *

"This might be a stupid question," said Felicity, looking up from her tablet and at the half-open bathroom door, "but are you sleeping over?"

"What?" Oliver came out of the bathroom, his hair darkened and spiky from a second shower. The mattress creaked when he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled a shirt over his head (damn, she should have hidden it).

Felicity caught one last glimpse of his back — scars and muscles — before the T-shirt covered it all. Fair enough — if he walked around like that, she had a tendency to set things on fire from pure, unadulterated distraction, and flaming furniture would _definitely_ ruin the mood.

She realized Oliver was waiting for her to repeat herself.

"Uh —" she said, clearing her throat. "Are you — uh — sleeping over?"

Oliver looked momentarily confused, in his eyebrows-contracting, adorably-confounded way. "Is this because I still smell like C4?"

"No — God no — I always wanted my bed to smell like Korean barbecue." Felicity let the tablet lie flat on her stomach, drumming her fingers on the glass screen as she tried to figure out how to phrase her question in the least awkward way possible. "I mean — now that you don't live in the Foundry anymore — it seems polite to _ask_ if you want to stay here. Since, you know," she waved her hand around, "this isn't exactly a Queen penthouse."

Oliver made a sound partway between a cough and a laugh. "I don't stay in a penthouse."

"The apartment at the top of a building is called a penthouse, Oliver." Felicity went back to reading Ray's email blast about the Palmer Technologies-Queen Incorporated meeting, while Oliver ventured beyond the bedroom to do everything a responsible apartment-dweller would do (i.e. check the front door, turn off the lights, make sure the freezer wasn't hanging open, etc).

The covers lifted when Oliver climbed in beside her, generously contributing his body heat to warming the bed. Reading company documents was a far-gone ruse at this point, so Felicity reached out to brush a small cut at the side of his neck, probably from flying glass. He nearly always climbed into bed with some kind of new cut or injury, but she'd never stopped worrying about them on his behalf.

"Do you want me to go?" he asked, running his thumb across the back of her hand.

Felicity gave him a look of the sarcastic _please_ variety and flicked a page on her tablet, more out of reflex than anything else. "I mean, you did ask me to marry you, and we've been sleeping together for the last six months. That's practically your side of the bed."

There were an infinite number of ways she could have phrased that sentence better.

"I mean…" she said, hastily, " _sleeping_ in the same bed. Same apartment. Not doing… _that._ Well, sometimes that. Actually —"

Felicity made an involuntary noise of surprise when Oliver pulled her close. Her tablet slid away and off the bed, and she was suddenly beneath Oliver, breathless in the half-darkness as he bent to kiss her.

"Should I go?" he asked, against her lips.

Felicity wrapped her arms around his neck. " _Stay,_ " she whispered.

* * *

Oliver woke too soon and too early. Bad dreams occurred less frequently than they used to, and most mornings he woke without the imprint of them at the back of his mind. Felicity played a big part in that, bigger than she knew.

She was still asleep, her face turned into his shoulder and an arm thrown across his chest. Completely trusting of him. It soothed him to know she was there, and he relaxed against the pillows, holding her close.

Today he'd woken quietly. No thrashing, no nightmares about faceless assassins from his time in Nanda Parbat and the terrible war with the League — and Ra's al Ghul, long-banished into the void.

Oliver shut his eyes briefly at the remembered pain of a sword thrust through the heart, permanently commemorated in yet another scar on his marked body. Except this was a scar shared by them both — a scar Felicity knew as well as he did. Another story he'd survived, another proof that he'd always come back.

Oliver lifted her hand from the covers, silently thoughtful. A few months ago, at the wedding of two very dear friends, he'd asked her a question — and she'd said yes. He still remembered how warm she was in his arms as they danced, the song that'd been playing when he'd asked the question, her voice in his ear when she whispered the answer. The memory was still vivid in his mind as he ran his thumb along the width of her ring finger, which was still bare because he'd never given her a ring, and she'd never asked for one. They'd both kept promises bigger than the promise of marriage, and they had the scars to show for it. A ring — at the time — seemed like a very inane concept.

The thought was still in his mind as he lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss into her palm.

A new day. Endless possibilities.

* * *

"I am _so_ late," said Felicity, brushing the tangles out of her crazy bedhead while Oliver — because he'd woken up at like _five_ in the morning — calmly knotted his tie in front of the bathroom mirror. Dress was on (good), shoes were waiting in front of the door (unusual), makeup finished (excellent), which left…

"Have you seen my other earring?" she asked, rummaging through the general clutter on her dresser. "The blue ones — I swear I still had them when we went to dinner the other night —"

"It might have rolled under the bed," Oliver answered immediately. His uncannily detailed memory was a godsend for misplaced possessions, not so much for when she was trying to get away with something.

"Rolled under the bed — why would it — _oh._ Never mind." Blushing in spite of herself, Felicity went on her knees and peered under the bed.

_Aha_. A telltale glimmer, beside…

She straightened up, dragging the lightweight titanium case out from under the frame. "You keep a _bow_ under the bed?"

Oliver stuck his head out of the bathroom, looking all neat and ready for a serious business meeting. "Of course," he said, as if it was the most logical thing in the world. "For emergencies."

Felicity realized she didn't have time to discuss his definition of _emergency_. "We'll talk about you keeping dangerous weapons in my apartment later," she said, hurrying back to the dresser mirror.

"About the meeting." Oliver leaned against the doorframe and watched her fumble with her earrings. "Palmer doesn't know about us, does he?"

Felicity poked her own earlobe, taken aback by the question. It occurred to her that maybe Ray wasn't quite aware that she was dating-slash-engaged-to QI's CEO, but then again, he'd never asked. She also wasn't interested in fording questions about her objectivity just because of someone she happened to be dating-slash-marrying-at-some-point.

Either way, with all the eligible billionaires running around Starling City, the paparazzi were profoundly disinterested in Felicity Smoak, so Oliver Queen — even though he practically _lived_ on the tabloid pages — showing up at her apartment had always stayed blissfully out of the trashy magazines.

"Short answer," said Felicity. "No. But then again, it's not really a conflict of interest. This is technically a friendly deal — nothing hostile-takeover-y about it. I keep my secrets and you keep yours. Completely separate spheres of influence — right?"

Oliver walked up behind her and zipped the back of her dress, which she'd forgotten — again. "That's not necessarily true," he said, resting his chin on her shoulder as his arms encircled her waist. "You could hack into my company servers anytime you wanted, even with the level of encryption QI's IT department puts up."

"True." Felicity nudged his head with hers, playfully. "But I promised not to."

"Mm." Oliver sounded thoughtful. She closed her eyes when he pressed a kiss into her neck, soft kisses tracking the curve of her throat, kisses that sent a tingle racing up her spine. "Come work with me," he murmured, against her skin.

Felicity opened her eyes and their gazes met in the mirror.

"You couldn't afford me, Oliver Queen," she said, and they both smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff. So much fluff. I am unaccustomed to them being so happy.


	3. Meeting of Two Minds

Felicity heard the metallic clanging even before she walked into Ray's office.

"How," she said, "can you do _that_ at this unholy hour?"

Apparently it was an unspoken rule that guys had to do salmon ladder shirtless (not that she was complaining). Ray's whole body lunged when he swung the bar from one notch to the next, the momentum carrying him into a graceful swing.

Felicity had a type, but she'd seen Oliver do it enough times (every Wednesday and the weekend, if she was lucky) to be somewhat unimpressed by anyone else attempting the same. Not that Ray knew who he was being compared to — in her mind.

"Helps me relax before a big meeting," he said. "I'm looking forward to this. Been — wanting — to — meet — Oliver — Queen — for — a — while — now."

"You already met him once, remember?" Felicity pointed out, seeing no reason to be gracious. "When you took his company. _Stole_ , I believe, was the operative word used."

"And I paid for it in porcupine flatulence," Ray said, dropping lightly to the ground. He looked up in the middle of shedding his gloves, as if a thought had just occurred to him. "Oliver Queen — your friend, right? I forgot."

Felicity had been in the middle of stealing Ray's coffeepot, and stopped at the mention of Oliver. _Friend_ , she thought, was putting it very mildly.

"Right," she said, wearing her best poker face.

Ray looked her in the eye. "Is that going to be a problem?"

Felicity shook her head. "Not at all. Unless you're planning to take over Queen Incorporated — in which case — how much do you like owls?"

Ray laughed, already rummaging through his closet for his work clothes. "Noted. But you should know that hostile takeovers aren't really my style."

"Says the guy with the metallic death suit. Heard about you busting that drug cartel last week," she commented. "I'm guessing the bulletproof part of your suit works, huh?"

"You've been keeping track of me?" Ray grinned, in the middle of fastening his shirt buttons. "I'm flattered."

"Well, the red and blue color scheme can be a little ostentatious."

"Says the girl who works with a Robin Hood vigilante."

In lieu of an answer, Felicity peered into the coffeepot and found some kind of bright green juice. It took all of her self-control to not drop the pot like a live grenade. "Eurgh — what _is_ that?"

"Aojiru. Mostly kale and barley — really good for the immune system. Try some."

"Ha. Not even if it had chocolate chips and a Ben & Jerry's logo on it."

Ray knotted his tie in front of the mirror, and Felicity flushed at the memory of Oliver in her apartment, doing the same thing Ray was — every morning. She really needed to work on her poker face if they (her and Oliver, that _they_ ) were going to keep things discreet.

"I have a feeling," he said, "that today's going to be a good day."

* * *

Palmer Technologies still gave Oliver an odd feeling, even more so when he walked into the lobby he recognized, elevators he'd ridden in countless times, back to a floor that should have had his family's logo on the wall — not Ray Palmer's.

Typically, the few minutes inside the elevator was the time Oliver used to switch gears, swapping one mask for the other. Oliver Queen, CEO of Queen Consolidated had been another one of Oliver's masks, the more uncomfortable one in comparison to his identity as the Arrow. Every time he chose his work in the Foundry over his work back at the office, the mask stretched even thinner, almost to breaking point.

He'd learned from his mistakes since then.

Oliver Queen, CEO of Queen Incorporated was a mask he gladly wore, because it was _his_ — not some family legacy he barely understood and treated as a cover for his real work as the Arrow. QI was something he and Walter had built up from the ground, meant to improve the Glades in a way traditionally disregarded by his old company.

"Things change, don't they?" said Diggle, demonstrating an uncanny ability to tell what Oliver was thinking. "I'm still your bodyguard — and you're still five minutes late."

Oliver glanced at his watch. "How else will they know it's me?" he said.

Diggle chuckled just before the doors opened and let them out into a familiar atrium.

"Mr. Queen!" A jittery young man was waiting for them by the glass doors, his nervous manner and obvious youth reminding him of someone else. "Welcome to Palmer Technologies. My name is Gerry Conway, EA. I'm supposed to show you to the conference room — they're all waiting —"

"I think I still remember my way around here," said Oliver, dryly. "Thank you, Mr. Conway."

Gerry let loose a high-pitched laugh, very nervously. "Right — because of the — never mind."

Oliver exchanged an amused glance with Diggle over the kid's shoulder.

"A lot more computers around here," Diggle commented, as they walked past office after office of sleek computers, all bearing the Palmer Technologies logo.

"Mr. Palmer develops prototypes on a biannual basis," Gerry said, proudly. "Everyone in the office gets to try them out before they make it to mass production. Fastest computers in the business."

"Whose EA did you say you were again?" Oliver asked, as they rounded a corner.

"Ah —" Gerry twisted to avoid a secretary walking by "— Miss Smoak's. I was assured my babbling would not be a problem —"

"No," said Oliver, a little absently, because he'd just seen Felicity through the glass doors. A smile crept unexpectedly onto his face, one he wasn't intending or capable of hiding. "It isn't."

* * *

Oliver was late. Again. Fortunately, Ray liked to keep his pitch meetings small, meaning it was just them two in the conference room — and the CEO afflicted with chronic lateness.

"You're his friend, right?" said Ray, drumming his fingers on the flecked tabletop. "How much does he hate me for what shall henceforth be referred to as _The Incident_?"

Felicity looked up from her computer, skeptically eyeing his use of air-quotes. "Oliver doesn't _hate_ people," she said, finishing off an email. _He just puts them in a Super-Max prison located somewhere in the North China Sea._ "And he doesn't hate you — he barely ever mentions you, actually."

Ray waved to get her attention. "Kinda need it on a scale here — ten being _loathe_ , one being _almost-friends_."

"Since when do you care if someone likes you?" she asked, without spite. It was an honest question, since Ray generally seemed too chipper and effervescent to give a frack about who liked him or not. Generally, people who had weaponized suits of armor tended not to care very much about popularity, what with the number of criminals being put in Iron Heights because of them.

"Oh. Because of the _wow_ factor," said Ray, as if it was self-explanatory.

"Explain that sentence."

Ray grinned. "My presentation. If he doesn't like me, it just means I have to up the wow factor."

Felicity blinked hard to clear the _alert-alert-alert_ lights going off inside her head, warning of an imminent disaster waiting to happen if Ray tried to pull one of his showmanship blowouts. "Oliver doesn't really do…firecrackers and sparkles or whatever you're planning to… _wow_ him with."

But Ray wasn't listening. "Speak of the Devil," he said, looking towards the door.

Felicity didn't quite know where to look when Oliver walked into the conference room. Partly because it'd been about two, three years since they'd last seen each other in an office, and some part of her still remembered making up terrible excuses as his executive assistant. Oh, and the huge fight they'd had about said "promotion" to EA.

Still — things changed. She was Felicity Smoak, VP of Palmer Technologies, and this meeting was going to go off without a hitch. (Pretty please)

Ray rose smoothly from his chair, stretching out a hand to Oliver.

"Mr. Queen," he said. "Nice to see you again."

"Mr. Palmer." Oliver had his CEO-smile on, the one for TIME magazine covers and investor meetings. "Sorry I'm late — traffic was terrible."

"Not at all, I had a bit of a late start myself." Ray gestured to the chair opposite Felicity's. "I believe you and Miss Smoak know each other?"

"We do." Oliver grasped Felicity's hand. "Miss Smoak," he said, and she had to bite her lip to keep from smiling too widely.

"Mr. Queen." Felicity could have sworn that he winked at her before he sat down.

"So," said Ray, reaching for the portable projector in his belt. "Let's get started, shall we?"

Oliver inclined his head. "Please."

* * *

Oliver and Ray did things very differently. Felicity knew that from the start that Oliver could impress without saying much (how much of that was due to genetics and the don't-mess-with-me jawline, she didn't know), and Ray…well, he had the kind of charisma that lent itself very well to pitch meetings. It was hard to describe, but he was confident enough to believe that his audience always had the intelligence to keep up, and most of the time, it actually worked.

"In short, with the advanced quantum know-how from Palmer Technologies' Applied Sciences division, and the cutting-edge manufacturing capabilities of Queen Incorporated, our joint project will be _the_ 21st Century breakthrough in quantum computing." Ray put his hands in his pockets, looking thoroughly pleased with his presentation. "Any questions?"

"Just the one," said Oliver. His hand was open on the table, long fingers elegantly splayed, which meant that he wasn't nervous — good. "Why QI? There must be dozens of companies around the world willing to do the manufacturing — at nearly the same level of expertise, at a lower cost. Why us?"

Ray grinned. "You undersell your company, Mr. Queen."

"I don't think I do," said Oliver, with brittle pleasantness.

"What he means," said Felicity, quickly, "is that Palmer Tech shares the same vision as QI. You guys want to make Starling City a better place, bring jobs to the Glades and make sure they stay there for the long haul. Sure, there might be a company in Taiwan that could do something similar for less, but that's not why Ray — or you — started your businesses. You want to save the city, and there's no better way to do it than making the Glades the center of high-tech innovation."

Felicity looked from Ray to Oliver, two very different men with very different personalities. She was in a unique position of being trusted by both men, suspended in an unconventional balance between the two. There existed a world of differences between them, but some very essential commonalities. Neither of them could say they'd had conventional lives or lived without loss, and neither of them realized that they were meeting a fellow Starling City vigilante.

She knew them both, and she knew where they intersected.

She knew they both wanted to save Starling City, and that was what mattered.

"This is the right thing to do," she said softly, meeting Oliver's eyes for the first time since they'd started the meeting.

Oliver held her gaze. Even in the darkened conference room, his eyes were a cloudless sky blue, and in them she saw the same thing she did — every morning, every day.

Hope.

A smile flitted across Oliver's face as he stood, and extended his hand to Ray. "I look forward to working with you, Mr. Palmer."

Ray raised the blinds with a flick of a switch, letting in the late morning sunlight that blazed off the glass walls in the conference room. "Absolutely," he said, pumping Oliver's hand enthusiastically. "I'm sure it'll be —"

Felicity's eyes were still adjusting to the sudden brightness of the room when she saw it — so gradually that she thought it might have been a mistake, a trick of the light.

A bright red point, hovering over Ray's heart.

Felicity was on her feet in a second.

"Oliver!" she screamed, right before the windows shattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was called 'The One Where it All Goes to Sh*t'. Fun times.


	4. Déjà Vu

Felicity's scream wrenched his senses into a single, sharp point of clarity.

Half a dozen laser sights, trained on Palmer's heart.

Oliver slammed his torso into Palmer's and they hit the ground before the glass shattered from the volley of gunshots.

Oliver crouched in the shadow of the conference table, an arm thrown out to stop Palmer from getting up again. His vision was dizzyingly focused, every muscle tuned for fight or flight.

_Felicity._

Oliver turned back to Palmer. "Stay down!" he shouted.

Palmer might have yelled something back, but Oliver didn't catch it, because he was already moving. The gunshots were still coming, even though Palmer wasn't in their sightline. A stray bullet created giant spidering cracks in the far wall, like ice on a melting river. A second bullet shattered it completely. Someone screamed.

Oliver ducked around the other side of the table until he found Felicity, her back to the wall and typing impossibly fast, despite the bullets striking the floor beside her.

He crouched in front of her, checking first for any injuries. "Felicity —" Oliver brushed the open cut above her eyebrow, his thumb coming away bright red. "You're hurt."

"No time," she said, her eyes darting across the screen. "I'm hacking the security cameras on the surrounding rooftops — maybe we can catch whoever's doing this."

Oliver heard a noise and spun around, a shard of glass clutched in his hand like a weapon.

"Easy!" Diggle held up his hands, crouched near them with a loaded Glock. "You guys all right?"

"I'm fine." Oliver dropped the piece of glass, ignoring the cuts it had scored into his palm. "Do we know who this is?"

"Frack." Felicity's hands were clenched into fists. "I don't know _who_ — because they shorted out all the cameras — and I don't know _which_ rooftop — because all the buildings facing the conference room are experiencing 'sudden mechanical difficulties' with their surveillance systems."

"These guys are pros." Diggle shook his head in frustration. "And we're sitting ducks out here — none of us can move with them machine-gunning through the windows."

During the presentation — whether intentionally or not — Oliver had taken note of everything, every detail, as if one of them might become crucial to survival. Including the switch Palmer used to operate the blinds.

Oliver turned to Felicity. "Is there a switch in every room?"

She tracked his gaze — all the way to the opposite wall where the switch was — and her grip tightened on his sleeve. "You are _not_ going out there," she said.

Oliver took the second handgun Diggle gave him, releasing the safety with a click. "Not without blowing my cover as the vigilante, I know. John — can you get Palmer out of here?"

"Got it."

Felicity's grip tightened on Oliver's arm. "What are you—?"

Oliver shot twice, the bullets smashing into the switch, and the blinds descended across the glaring windows, like the stage curtains closing on a morbidly dangerous and thrilling act of a play gone wrong.

Beside him, Felicity took a ragged breath — which he heard, in the sudden ringing silence.

It was over.

For now.

* * *

Felicity tasted blood at the corner of her mouth from a cut made by flying glass. She pressed a piece of gauze to her cheek and tried not to think about the déjà vu. Destroyed conference room, nonexistent windowpanes, business meeting gone to hell…

All they needed was a striking female CEO with permanent Angry-Face and they had the Hoods Incident from three years ago. She was just glad that she didn't have to jump out the window this time.

The paramedics were on the scene, dealing with people who had more pressing injuries (she was almost sick from the sight of a secretary who'd gotten a bullet in the shin).

"You guys should really consider getting bulletproof glass," Captain Lance observed.

"Not my office building anymore," Oliver answered. His sleeves were rolled up out of the way, but one of them was still tinted with blood from a long glass cut down his forearm. Felicity made a mental note to clean that up when they got back to the Foundry.

"Oh, yeah, right, I remember that." Lance tapped his pen against his notebook. "Still — most of the same people involved, eh? You, Miss Smoak over here, and your trusty bodyguard. I figure the three of you cause trouble wherever you go."

"Or," Felicity said, her voice slightly muffled by the piece of gauze, "we just have the _best_ luck."

Oliver smiled. "Anything else we can help you with, Captain?"

Lance flipped to a fresh page on his pad. "Yeah, I just need to take your statements. Oliver — why don't you head over to Detective Ramirez over there, and I'll take Miss Smoak's."

Felicity gave Oliver's hand a squeeze in response to his questioning look. "It's okay," she said, letting him go.

Her gaze followed him long after their hands slipped apart.

"Charming," said Lance, even though his frown suggested otherwise. "You two still an item, huh? Why the girls keep going for the billionaire playboys, I never know. Same goes for your boss over there, by the way. I always said that more money doesn't go hand in hand with more sense."

Felicity cleared her throat before the Captain went into rant mode. "Uh — my statement?"

Lance's stern expression softened.

"Here, lemme see that," he said, checking the cut on her forehead with surprising concern. Felicity had figured out a long time ago (with some input from her mom) that he was a gruff, non-touchy-feely person, but not unkind. The snippy "Captain" persona only made a reappearance around Oliver Queen, who Lance still disliked (for understandable reasons).

"It doesn't hurt," Felicity lied. "Any chance I can avoid stitches?"

"Slim to none." Lance adjusted her hand to put pressure on her cheek. "Try to get sutures — staples leave scars. Take it from someone who's been there," he said, knowingly.

"Mm-hm." Felicity shifted to accommodate the telltale itching in her back, from five staple-healed scratches in her skin. "Any word on who tried to kill Ray?"

"We checked the surrounding rooftops, no sign of 'em." Lance sighed and glanced at the blinds, fluttering in the twenty-eight-story breeze. "I'm guessing I don't need to tell you that our mutual friend should be on the case, right?" he said, gruffly.

"I'm sure he already knows," Felicity said, lightly. "And I'll say hi to my mom for you."

Lance gave her one of his rare smiles. "You're a good girl. Be careful who you hang around with, okay?"

* * *

"Sorry about this," said Ray, gesturing at the ruins of the conference room. "I can tell you that this usually doesn't happen. Well — apart from that time I had a pledge benefit — and that _other_ time I had a fundraiser — anyway, the point is, I hope our agreement still stands."

Oliver inclined his head. "I've had worse business meetings," he said. "I'm still happy to work with Palmer Technologies."

"I'm glad to hear it. Oh — and thank you, by the way, for saving my life." Ray shook his head. "I may have gotten a concussion back there and concussions make you forget things — apparently — but I _definitely_ remember you knocking me out of the way. My reflexes are a little rusty — sometimes I forget that computers can't do everything for you."

Oliver had to smile, which surprised him. Ray Palmer had always put him on edge, especially where Felicity was concerned. But Palmer had an earnestness about him, and Oliver was starting to think that he had been conditioned to be amused by uncontrollable babbling.

"Anyway —" Ray extended his hand. "Thank you, Mr. Queen."

For the second time that day, Oliver shook Palmer's hand and solidified an unprecedented step for their companies. The creation of a legacy, both personal and for Starling City.

"Oliver," he said. "Call me Oliver."

* * *

"Why Palmer?" said Oliver, more to himself than anyone else in the room.

Felicity shuddered as Diggle picked out another sliver of glass from Oliver's arm. Her hands jolted in the middle of pouring isopropyl alcohol over a gauze pad, slopping some of it onto the stainless steel worktable.

"That is disgusting," she said, trying — and failing — not to gag.

"The price of being a hero," Diggle muttered, rapping on the tray to dislodge glass shards still sticking to the forceps.

Oliver didn't even flinch when Felicity dabbed at the cuts in his palm, even though the pad came away stained pink.

"Any results from ballistics analysis?" he asked, his voice perfectly steady.

"You mean from the bullets I stole from my own office?" Felicity looked over his shoulder at the computers, which were still running. "Nothing yet. We'll get the alert if the specs match anything in the SCPD and Federal databases. Not that any of you lawless individuals mind _per se_ , but I'm pretty sure that I just described two very different and very serious felonies. We could all end up in Iron Heights."

"The way Iron Heights security operates," Diggle said, dryly, "you'll be out in a week."

Felicity sighed. "Cheerful."

"Any idea why someone would want to kill Palmer?" Oliver asked, quietly. "Does he have any enemies? Anyone the Arrow can question?"

Felicity slipped the rubber gloves from her hands, delaying her answer. To be fair, Ray would have a better idea about enemies than anyone, including her. She'd stepped out of his vigilante sphere a while back, and apart from keeping an invisible tally on ATOM interventions, she didn't really have a definitive idea of Ray's enemies, especially since they weren't supposed to know who he was.

"Well, Ray doesn't really have many friends," she said. "He says it's because people don't usually like the smartest person in the room."

Diggle made a derisive noise under his breath. "Of course he does."

Oliver wrapped his arm in a bandage, looking thoughtful. "Detective Ramirez mentioned that today wasn't an isolated incident. The SCPD's been dealing with shootings all week. Felicity —"

She was already sliding into her chair. "—I'll check for similar M.O.s in the SCPD reports." _Committing yet another felony_ , she thought, one more notch to her ever-growing list.

Just like old times, the three of them back in the Foundry, nursing fresh injuries and excess adrenaline from near-death experiences.

"I can run a recursive algorithm on the shooting victims, see what they all have in common, root out the unlikelies — but it might take some time."

Oliver nodded. "Let me know as soon as you find something." He shrugged back into his shirt with a wince. "I have to see Walter — let him know what happened."

Felicity spun around in her chair. "Are you sure you want to head back to the office like that? No offence, but you look like hell."

Oliver sighed. "The shooting's been all over the news, Felicity. I have to reassure Walter that the deal went fine —"

Felicity turned at the sound of the computer alert. "Oliver," she said.

"—I have to call Thea, make sure she doesn't —"

" _Oliver_."

"What?"

"Before that, you might want to get on the phone to Russia."

Oliver narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

Felicity brought up the ballistics report to the main monitor for Diggle and Oliver to read. "The bullet is an old USSR design, late 1980s. The Federal database associates it with a string of crime families and mafia organizations — any of them ring a bell?"

Judging from Oliver's expression, he'd seen the one name that stood out.

"The Bratva," he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha. I follow through on my promises. Ish. More next chapter.


	5. Debt Owed

Felicity was running out of nervous tics to try. She'd cracked a knuckle (emphasis on the singular, and the _ow_ ), drummed her fingers on the table, contemplated biting her nails — all without much effect on her stress levels.

"Remind me again," she said, "why you're not wearing your face?"

"This _is_ my face," Oliver answered, over the sounds of traffic whizzing by.

"Your other face," she said, trying (and failing) at not being snippy. "The mask and hood one."

"I've always gone to the Bratva as Oliver Queen, not as the Arrow."

Felicity exchanged looks with Diggle. "I have to admit, man," said Diggle, "I'd feel a lot better if I was there with you."

"The Bratva doesn't extend courtesy to strangers, and —"

Felicity caught her breath when Oliver swerved through a turning, like there was no such thing as _cars_ and the very scary possibility of an accident.

"— I'm not exactly sure we're on good terms, given the way I left things the last time I asked for a favor."

Diggle sighed. "And how did you leave things with the Bratva?"

"Let's just say it involved guns."

New information. Completely new information.

"No, no," Felicity interrupted. "You say that in _terror._ Oliver, you're walking into a room full of thugs armed with assault rifles — and asking them for some pretty sketchy information. You're going to get yourself killed."

"I love you too," said Oliver. "Call you back later."

"Oliver—!"

The line went dead.

Behind her, Diggle cleared his throat in warning. A little unnecessarily, since the sound of the Foundry door banging open was enough indication that she had some explaining to do — on Oliver's behalf.

Felicity barely had time to get out of her chair before Thea slammed into her. "Oh my God!" she breathed, her arms locked in a surprisingly tight hug for such a small person. "I heard about the shooting — are you guys okay?"

"We're fine." Felicity patted Thea's back reassuringly. "We're okay."

"Yeah right," said Roy, glancing round at the monitors. "The shooting's all over the news. Oliver Queen and Ray Palmer aren't exactly nobodies."

Felicity was very flattered by the implication. "Thanks. Happy Nobody, over here."

"Who was it? What did they want?" Thea asked, just as Roy looked around the Foundry, as if he'd just noticed something.

"Uh," he observed, "where's Oliver?"

Felicity turned back to the computers, at the blinking dot on the Starling City map, which at that point was the only contact she still had with Oliver since he'd cut his side of the comms.

"That," she said, "is a long story."

* * *

Oliver smelled the familiar stench of motor grease and ash as he dismounted, slipping the earpiece into his jacket pocket as he did. It was a precaution — he didn't want Felicity or the others hearing his confrontation with the Bratva, or the person he became when he needed a favor from the Russian mob. In the fading daylight, already he could feel the ramrod straightness return to his spine, the stiffness to his shoulders, as if he was subconsciously assuming the stance of the Bratva Captain.

Felicity had seen him as a League assassin, seen him as the Hood — but she'd never seen him like this. There was arguably a deadly elegance to the League's methods, a sort of dark mastery in the way they taught him to fight — and kill. The Bratva in comparison was a blunt instrument to the League's finely honed arrowhead. Brutality and raw, open wounds defined the Bratva like smoke and shadows defined the League, a favor for a favor, a brotherhood founded on pragmatism and a violent system of quid pro quo.

Oliver didn't want her to see him like that.

The auto workshop was unchanged, still a front for the Russian mafia's illegal activities in Starling. He didn't have a gun — but that would soon change. All he had to do was take one off his attackers, as simple as that.

Steam rose from rusted grates in the pavement, billowing around the chained fence rattling faintly in the night wind. Sparks from unseen tools hissed upon contact with the puddles of murky water around a suspended car.

"We're closed," said a voice, flavored thick with a Russian accent — Southern Russian, to be precise.

Oliver stood where he was. "Not for me," he said.

He sensed them — materializing eerily through the clouds of mist. Three — four — five. Their leader was the last to emerge, and when Oliver recognized him, a slow smile crept onto his face, as deliberate as a bared knife.

"I know you," Oliver said, in Russian. "You were Alexi Leonov's man. I broke your wrist. Ivor, wasn't it?"

A murmur ran through the group, traveling the circle of men surrounding Oliver.

A grimy rag hung from his greasy hands as Leonov's old bodyguard stared at Oliver as if he'd seen a ghost resurrected. "You are a phantom," he responded, his eyes hardening. "And you are not welcome here."

Oliver ignored the comment. "I need a favor from the brotherhood."

"Just because Alexi died with an arrow in his eye does not mean that the Bratva welcomes you with open arms once more, _Oliver_." Ivor turned his head and spat at Oliver's feet. "You are not one of us — and you are a fool to even try."

Ivor's hand curled behind his back, reaching for a hidden gun, and Oliver moved. He lunged, rolling forward to sweep his legs out from under him. The gun clattered out of Ivor's grasp and Oliver snatched it up.

Behind him, a bullet cracked on concrete and Oliver fired back on instinct. Three men went down in the first few seconds, each with a shot to the shoulder or leg. Oliver's mind slipped into the mechanics of inflicting bodily harm, as simple as an equation, as precisely brutal as he needed it to be.

Oliver slammed his open palm into someone's throat, cracked the butt of his gun into a nose. A gun came out of nowhere and Oliver caught it by the barrel, forcing it down and away — twisting the arm hard enough to force a cry of agony from the man as it dislocated.

When the second-to-last dropped his gun, his wrist mangled and twisted out of joint, Oliver turned last to Ivor.

Ivor was still catching his breath, lying on the ground and surrounded by his unconscious bodyguards. The heady rush of adrenaline and the dangerous thrill of physical violence threatened to drown out his sense of reason, so Oliver had to return to himself, if only for a moment.

Which was why he made the call.

"Oliver?" said Felicity. "Thank God — are you all right?"

"I'm fine." Oliver shut his eyes briefly and listened to his pulse slow. "I just had to call."

"Did they tell you?" Her voice shook slightly, her nervousness suppressed but there.

Oliver cocked his head slightly and watched the blood drain from Ivor's face. "No," he said, calmly. "Not yet. I'll be back soon."

"Oliver," said Felicity, and for a moment, Oliver didn't want her to ask — to ask him what he was prepared to do in order to obtain the information.

Then she said: "There's always another way."

_Always_. And Felicity trusted Oliver to remember it.

"I know," he answered, and ended the call.

Oliver inhaled, deeply, and let the breath steady him. There was a reason he'd come, after all. He raised the stolen gun.

"I need a favor," he repeated, slow and deliberate. "I want to know why the Bratva tried to kill Ray Palmer."

* * *

"How do you do it?"

Felicity turned in her chair. She hadn't realized that Thea wasn't moving anymore. She'd been in the Foundry long enough to tune out the sounds of martial-arts-slash-vigilante-training, until the sound of splintering wood and clanging metal was something of a background soundtrack to her work on the computers.

"Do what?" Felicity asked, patiently.

Thea's skin was shiny from perspiration, and her bared stomach heaved as she caught her breath. She stood at the very edge of the training circle, the two rattan sticks gripped tight in her fists as if she was having trouble letting them go.

"How do you sit there…when Oliver just _goes_ away?" Thea raised her head, and Felicity saw how unsettled she was about Oliver's failure to return.

But she knew that already. That was why the both of them were still in the Foundry, waiting for him to get back, even though there'd been nights — for Felicity and Diggle and Roy — when Oliver's tendency for lone-wolfing resurfaced, and all there was to do was wait. The Bratva had a tendency to do that to him, what with its vaguely racist and decidedly elusive entrance policy.

Oliver had kept Thea close after telling her the secret, his only family left in the world. But there were still sides of her brother that Thea didn't know, ones Felicity didn't know how to tell her about.

So she didn't.

"Thea." Felicity was the first to move, silently wrapping her arms around Oliver's little sister. They were nearly the same height, and she was twenty — not a child — as fearsome a fighter as Roy, maybe even Sara. But in that moment, when that impenetrable shell fractured, she was still a girl afraid for an older brother who had been lost before. "Oliver always comes back — he just does this sometimes."

The sticks clattered when they hit the ground, and Thea's arms curled around Felicity's neck, holding on tight. Felicity moved her hand in slow circles against Thea's back, a simple, reassuring repetition, the way her mother used to when the words failed them both.

"I would _never_ wish that Ollie hadn't told me his secret," Thea said, her breath hot against Felicity's neck. "But every time I watch him walk out that door — I just think — what if he doesn't come back? What if something happens to him — and I'm not there to say goodbye? What if —" She choked on her words, gasping into silence.

Felicity tilted her head back to the ceiling. It hurt — hearing her words come from Thea's mouth, words she heard in her darkest thoughts and her lowest moments, moments when she thought she was going to lose Oliver — again. Despite everything that had happened between them, what they'd come through together, she couldn't lie and say that it was easy.

"Oliver loves you," she murmured. "Very much. He fought the League of Assassins to keep you safe, to come back home. If he can survive that — he can survive anything. There is nothing Oliver can't and won't do when it comes to the people he loves, and you just have to trust that he'll come back."

Thea nodded, moving back to sit at the edge of the table. Ever present, Felix padded soundlessly over to her and made a small, plaintive noise as he rubbed his head against her arm. Felicity sank back into her chair, looking up at Thea.

"I'm sorry," Thea muttered, scrubbing the heel of her free hand across her cheeks to obliterate the tear tracks. "The shooting has me on edge — and Ollie _disappearing_ like that…it just set off something — I — I don't know."

"It wasn't Oliver they were trying to kill." Even said out loud, the distinction didn't make it any better. Felicity still saw the bright red lights clustered on Ray's chest, the harsh scrape of terror in her throat when she realized that a friend was about to die.

Thea made a noise of disagreement. "They shot at you too, you know."

"Believe it or not," Felicity said, with a straight face, "it's not my first time. The last time that happened, your brother pulled me out a broken window."

Thea laughed, but it was a laugh that caught her by surprise because she hadn't been expecting to laugh at all. She looked Felicity in the eye, abruptly serious in a way that reminded her of Oliver.

"Does it get easier?" she asked.

Saying something was _easy_ , and saying that it got, or would get, easier — were two very different things. Watching Oliver leave would never be easy, but it did get a little easier, knowing him, knowing his will to survive.

With all the lies Thea had been told, Felicity didn't want to lie anymore.

"No," she said. "But you learn to live with it. You learn to trust him, and you hope. Sometimes, all you can do is hope."

* * *

Ivor's mouth twitched in a mirthless smile when Oliver set the bullet on the table between them. His leg stretched in front of him at an odd angle, disjointed at the knee where Oliver had yet to force it back into place.

"I do not know," he said, flatly.

Russian may not have been Oliver's first language, but he knew when someone was lying to him. He also didn't bother hiding it from Ivor.

"Why does the Bratva want Palmer dead?" he asked, running through the narrowed list of possibilities in his head. Palmer wasn't the type to be in debt, he didn't seem nearly bored or unstable enough to need drugs, or anything the Bratva traded in.

"If the Bratva wanted this…Mr. _Palmer_ dead, why should it be any of your business?" Ivor's gums were raw and weeping, bared in a ghoulish smile. "You have shown yourself unwilling to follow the rules of the Brotherhood — a favor for a favor, service for a service, blood for blood."

"A life for a life?" Oliver said, releasing the safety. It clacked against the table as he let it rest in front of Ivor, so he could stare down the barrel of the gun. "Is this secret a worthy trade for your life?"

"Mr. Queen." Ivor wheezed, his sides contracting in broken bouts of laughter. "We both know that you are not a killer. Anatoly may still hold you in high regard for saving his life — but we in Starling City do not. So if you want your favor, I suggest you go to Moscow and ask him yourself — because the Bratva of Starling City will never answer to Oliver Queen, and you are too soft to prove why we should. So my advice to you, Oliver, is to pull that trigger — or never darken my doorstep again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry with the update slowness. I was just crawling out of a shallow grave after 3x15. But more on that later.
> 
> On a more happy note, thanks for the kind words about the sequel! So glad there's interest out there for it.


	6. Summer's End

Felicity was in the kitchen when she heard the key turn in the lock. Her glass of wine wobbled on the counter, abandoned in her haste to reach the front door. Maybe Thea's anxiety had rubbed off onto her, or she was sane enough to be worried about Oliver walking into a gunfight unarmed. She caught Oliver in a hug before he'd even had a chance to put away his key — she heard it rattle when it hit the floor unseen, just before his arms closed around her and he held her close. The closest they would ever get to an end-of-the-work-day hug.

" _Oliver_ ," she whispered, putting every ounce of worry — doubt — fear — into that one word, feelings that vanished as soon as she saw him again.

"I'm okay." The usual tension in his shoulders was gone when he leaned into her, solid and warm and _there_.His hand was at the nape of her neck, his fingers curling on the bumps of her spine. "I'm sorry — I know it's late, but I had to check in on Thea."

Felicity pulled back to look at him, alerted by the quietness of his voice, by how tired he was. "Are you hurt?"

Oliver shook his head in response to her question, smoothing the hair off her forehead. His thumb traced the fresh stitches above her eyebrow, and even though his touch was gentle as always, something in his expression bothered her.

"What's wrong?" she asked, softly.

* * *

Oliver handed Felicity her glass of wine and leaned back, resting his weight against the kitchen counter. This was how they ended some nights, having a quiet drink in the kitchen, facing each other across a narrow space made up of the few feet between the sink and the counter. Felicity liked red wine, and since Oliver's mother had the kind of taste she'd felt duty-bound to pass onto her son, most of the choices in her cabinet were his. There was something reassuringly low-key about a mundane choice like uncorking a bottle of wine he'd brought home as a present for her, the way she crossed her legs at the ankles, even though she was leaning against the sink. A comfort in little habits, small traditions they'd built up over a year together.

At least, there should have been.

His glass was beside his hand, untouched because he was still thinking, racing through the eventualities and calculations of protecting his city, even though he was tired — so tired — and all he could concentrate on was the sense of rising trepidation. It had him in a vice-like grip, the knowledge of impending chaos. A feeling he thought he'd outgrown and outrun.

He'd felt that way when Slade first resurfaced after the island. He'd felt that way before the League of Assassins first threatened Starling City and the lives of everyone in it. Now there were citizens being targeted and he didn't know what to do.

"Tell me," she said.

Oliver shook his head. "Just…tired."

"You," she said, letting her skepticism show. "Tired."

Oliver smiled grudgingly. "Apparently, my fallout with the Bratva still stands. They won't tell me anything about Palmer, or the bullets, and I wasn't going to kill their leader to show how serious I am about finding out." He glanced up at her. "I chose the other way," he said, softly.

Felicity's smile mirrored his. "Good call."

Oliver watched as she set her glass down on the counter and brushed a trailing lock of hair behind her ear. "But what else?" she asked, knowing, as she usually did, that there was something else bothering him.

Oliver searched for a way to put his doubt into words, a way to express his dread of this peace — this _high_ — coming to an end. He felt like the summer was slipping away from him, like he and Felicity had existed in a clear shell that was finally starting to fracture. It was all sliding out of reach, and he feared for her — for them.

"It's starting again," he said, simply. "Something bad — and I can't stop it if I don't know what it is."

" _We_."

Oliver looked up at the correction. Felicity had crossed the small distance between them, and was looking up at him. Oliver felt a wordless feeling tug at his heart as she reached for his hands and pressed a kiss into his bruised knuckles. "It's not just you anymore, Oliver," she whispered. "It's us. Whatever this is — we will find out, and we will face it, _together_. You are not alone, because you have friends and family who are with you to the end."

Oliver inhaled, deeply, and raised one hand to her face. "And you," he murmured, stroking her cheek with his thumb. "What are you?"

"What am I?" she repeated, her lips slightly parted in a teasing smile.

But Oliver already knew the answer, and he was smiling when he tilted her face up to his. Her mouth tasted of red wine and warm heady nights under a sky of stars, a breath of summer that reminded him there was still reason to hope.

* * *

Sara had kicked the blankets loose again. Diggle ducked past the hanging mobile of paper birds and wire-filigree stars to tuck in the corners of her quilt. He patted the covers gently and withdrew to the window seat, picking up his laptop again.

The files were page after page of reports and details and names that Diggle waded through with laborious effort, only because he was determined not to drown. His efforts had taken on more urgency in the wake of Palmer's near-assassination, and reports of shootings in other parts of the city, even though there was little to no evidence that they were even linked. Deadshot had killed his brother, but he was sitting in an ARGUS prison, and the last time he checked — Floyd Lawton didn't work for the Bratva.

Somewhere in the record of unexplained shootings was a link between the recent assassinations and his brother's death, the Bratva and Deadshot.

And HIVE.

There was a time when he'd almost forgotten the name — or thought he had. When his search had come up empty, a part of him thought that Lawton was just screwing with him, that telling him the name was just another way to leave his mark on the brother of a man he'd killed on contract.

But based on his time working with Oliver, and from Lyla's work in ARGUS, Diggle knew that anyone who hired killers wasn't going to show up on something as simple as a web search. He also knew that going any further would have involved pushing past a threshold he wasn't quite sure he was ready to breach. It was the kind of doorway that led to deep shadows and questions with few answers — and possible danger to his wife and child if the wrong people found out that he was looking.

Diggle's eyes were starting to protest the long periods of time in front of the computer screen. There was a reason why he was usually out in the field, and Felicity was the one in front of the monitors. She had a way of seeing past the confusion and picking out the patterns, maneuvering the labyrinth of information to a solution.

But knowing Felicity and Oliver, they had their own issues to deal with, and seeking help — any more than he already had — was a last resort. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and stood up for a break. Sara was still asleep, oblivious to his work. They'd only just switched her from a crib to a new bed, and even though she still had years to go, Diggle saw her racing ahead of him on her growing legs, and soon it would be school and sports teams and homework…

With what he and Lyla did for a living, Sara would never be as safe as a child her age should have been. They'd accepted that. Even though she had her parents, Felicity and Oliver and Roy as an extended family of sorts, she would never know her uncle Andy.

And she deserved to know why.

Diggle sat carefully at the edge of his daughter's bed and reached for the computer again. He would find the answers, one way or another.

* * *

Oliver's feet were bare. The grass was still wet beneath the soles of his feet, whether from rain or dew, he didn't know. It was a midsummer night, warm and heavy with the scents of honeysuckle and the sounds of the cicadas in the trees. The sky above his head was an expanse of stars, the kind of skies he never saw in Starling City, the kind of skies he remembered from Lian Yu. His time there had been a special kind of purgatory, but the stars, he'd never hated. It reminded him of nights when his father would take them all out to the water on the family boat, away from the blinding lights of Starling City so that they could see the stars. He'd still been a boy, then, and Thea was barely old enough to speak. Sometimes Tommy had come along, and even though the boat was always the noisiest and most chaotic whenever the two of them were together, it only made his parents smile at each other.

Summer night. A reason to hope.

A hand slipped into the crook of his elbow. He knew that gesture, and the pang of remembrance it set off in his heart. Oliver turned to see his mother standing beside him in the grass, watching the stars like they were old friends.

"It's coming," said Moira, turning to look at him. Her smile was as warm as he remembered, but resigned, as if she'd seen it all before. "You know what you have to do."

"Mom —"

Oliver suddenly found himself standing in a completely different scene. The grass and skies were gone, replaced by the familiar interior of the Queen Consolidated building. The air shivered with laughter and talk — sounds of a party. Oliver looked down and saw that he was wearing a suit, a flute of champagne in his hand.

"You know what's about to happen," Moira said. Her arm was still linked with his, and she led him across the floor. The sea of strangers shifted easily to admit them, and even though they smiled and murmured greetings to him like old friends, they were as insubstantial as waifs, leaving no mark on him as soon as they faded from his line of sight.

"I don't understand," said Oliver, as his mother climbed the steps to a low dais, the folds of her dress shifting like the shadows as she turned back for him.

Oliver realized that the room had gone silent around him. Everyone had frozen like puppets suspended on strings, eyes vacant and staring. Slowly, he picked out the faces he knew in the crowd. Thea. Diggle. Roy. Felicity. Laurel. Even Ray Palmer. In the sea of strangers he saw family and friends and faces he knew.

"Mom." Oliver turned to Moira. "What is this?"

But his mother had gone still, and with a dawning sense of horror, he saw the scarlet dot trained on her chest, the assassin's mark. Turning back to the crowd, he saw the same on his friends, every single one of them. Marked for death.

Oliver slowly looked down at his chest and saw the same vivid red mark, quivering slightly over his heart.

"I'm sorry," he said, as the bullet tore through his body.

The breath rushed out of his lungs when he hit the ground — soaked to the skin in his own blood — but he still didn't wake. Death should have released him, but the nightmare kept its hold on him tight, and all he could do was watch his family and his friends fall, one by one, to a horror he didn't know how to stop.

* * *

Felicity woke when it was still dark, and she didn't know why. At first she thought it was because of the cold (she had a tendency to kick the covers off), until she heard it.

Oliver — talking in his sleep. She was the kind of sleeper who could power through anything, but sleeping in the same bed generally meant knowing about the other's nocturnal tics, one way or another. She lay still for a moment and listened, partly to see if she could guess what he was dreaming about, partly to see if it was a nightmare she should wake him from. But the few words she caught didn't sound like English.

Trust Oliver to dream in Russian.

"Oliver." She sat up, groping clumsily for the bedside lamp. " _Oliver._ "

The soft yellow light blinded her when it blinked to life, and she was still squinting when she reached for Oliver. Except his arm slipped out of her grasp, slick with perspiration. That was when Felicity realized Oliver was having a nightmare — or his version of it, anyway. The front of his shirt was dark with sweat, but he shuddered like he was in the cold, his hands clenched into fists at his side. There was something deeply terrifying about the way he slept on, and even though he wasn't thrashing, it was the kind of stillness that reminded her of paralysis. Caught helplessly in his nightmares.

Felicity got on her knees and started to shake him. "Oliver — _Oliver_!"

She yelped when Oliver finally bolted upright. She'd landed on her elbows, having fallen back just in time to avoid an unfortunate headbutt situation. His eyes were wide and unseeing, his chest heaving in time with each ragged breath he took.

For a moment, it seemed like he wouldn't recognize her. Then something clicked in his eyes, and it was the old Oliver again.

"I'm sorry," he gasped. "I didn't — it was —"

Felicity tentatively raised her hands to his face, holding him as he tried to find the words. He didn't have to. The only thing that could rattle Oliver like that was seeing the people he loved in harm's way, which was conveniently a common subject for his nightmares. "It's okay," she murmured, feeling her heart race with his. "It's okay."

Oliver's hands encircled her wrists and he pressed his forehead to hers with a shuddering sigh. "Anatoly — my debt with the Bratva — I have to clear it."

"What?" Felicity pulled back, looking him dead in the eye. "Oliver, their favors are the stabby-stab and torture-y kind," Felicity said. "And you don't do that anymore."

"No." Oliver shook his head, his eyes darting from side to side as he thought. "That's why I have to see Anatoly myself."

"Oliver — Anatoly isn't in Starling City. Are you really saying —"

Oliver just looked at her, and Felicity knew.

 _It's starting again, isn't it?_ Oliver needed to know how to protect Starling City, and in order to do _that_ , they needed to know the threat they were facing.

"We have to go to Moscow," he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts on 3x15:
> 
> \- Holy shit I am so mothereffing pissed that the show went there with Raylicity. And just to be clear, it's not about Felicity sleeping with someone else. Because GREAT. GOOD FOR HER. GIRL DESERVES TO GET SOME. BUT MOTHEREFFING PALMER? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? THE BORDERLINE-STALKER CREEPYPANTS? I think I woke up my flatmates by screaming NOOOOOOOOOOOOO at 1AM in the bloody morning.
> 
> \- SO lucky I wrote 1/2-ish of the fic's outline before seeing the latest episode, otherwise I'd be killing some characters right about now
> 
> \- Oliver, Oliver, Oliver, I want to beat you over the head with a bat right now. "I don't plan on dying [in Nanda Parbat]" — OH, WELL, IF YOU DON'T INTEND TO DIE I GUESS THAT'S OKAY THEN. WHERE ARE YOU, CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT?! DID YOU DIE ALONG WITH "HOW TO WRITE LOVE-INTERESTS-101"?!
> 
> \- Also, I'm sorry and while I sensed that there is important plot stuff happening (hello, Oliver, potential new Ra's al Ghul), but all I could think of was "Felicity and Ray had sex na-na-na-na-na".
> 
> \- And urgh, all the Nyssara feels. I kinda wish Sara was back. Scratch that, I WANT Sara to be back, both on the show and in this fic. Damn sequels and their continuity issues.
> 
> \- Oliver is Diggle's best man awwwwww the BROTP feels. :D
> 
> Mini-conclusion:  
> Season 3 has really been the season of mishaps, messes and downright emotional manipulation. Now if you excuse me, since giving up the show is an unrealistic exercise of the kind of strength I simply do not possess, I'm going to curl up into a ball and die now.  
> P.S.: In retaliation, I am SO going to cram the next chapters with plot and fluff. Pardon my French, but Oliver and Felicity are going to _do_ each other in Moscow, and I don't care what anyone else tells me. Screw you, Trollenheim.


	7. The Normal Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These 3x19 spoilers are really driving me nuts.

Felicity was starting to think the universe was playing tricks on her. First, Moscow. As if that wasn't déjà vu enough, a semi-unwanted third party was coming along, throwing a wrench in the Team Arrow shenanigans. If Ray started wearing stilettos and threatening Oliver with the breakup of his company, he'd be a second Isabel Rochev.

Oh, and the last thing was completely unrelated, but Ray's holographic table was starting to give her a headache.

"Personally," said Ray, on the other side of the table, "I prefer St. Petersburg. The city layout makes more sense than Moscow. I mean I know it's historic architecture and all, but ring roads are so —"

Felicity made a non-committal noise. "Uh, Ray, you really don't have to come if you don't want to. I can manage fine — promise."

"I know, and I trust you," Ray said, immediately. "But —" And he flipped the projection around so that Felicity could read an email sent from the Moscow subsidiary.

She blew out her breath. "Somehow both strongly-worded and skittish."

Ray raised his arms in a gesture of pride. "The benefits of almost being assassinated. Investors get _very_ antsy."

"Dwarf star…alloy?" Felicity flicked the email out of the way so she could direct her best skeptical look at him. "Ray, you're not using the R&D budget for your death-suit, are you?"

Ray scratched at his temple a little sheepishly. "Okay, guilty. But it's a two-birds-with-one-stone situation. Marinov Holdings has the dwarf star alloy deposits I sorta-really need, and their gallium output is _completely_ crucial to the Palmer-QI manufacturing deal." He raised two fingers. "So I'm technically not doing anything wrong."

Felicity sighed. "Well, I'm not exactly the moral compass on the issue," she admitted. "What with the vigilante stuff and all."

"Exactly — a jury would probably see you as an accomplice. _Ergo_ , we are having dinner with the Marinovs on Wednesday — in Moscow — and on our best behavior."

Felicity sighed. Ray knew how much she hated going to business dinners, which meant only one thing. "Just how boring are they?"

Ray made a face. "Watching paint dry —"

"—oh, good —"

"—would _probably_ be more interesting, since I've heard that sniffing paint can be kinda fun—"

"—Ray, your point—"

"Right — so yeah, think a hybrid of observing gravel and the fifth season of Downton Abbey. Bone-crunchingly dull."

Felicity pinched the bridge of her nose. "Excellent."

Ray grinned. "I know, so I'll see you in the lobby at six."

* * *

"Ollie, for the — I don't know — _millionth_ time, I get it." Thea widened her eyes to exaggerate her point. "Be careful, and don't do anything stupid. Oh — and feed the cat."

Oliver reached over and plucked a folded sweater from her grasp. She'd perched on the edge of the table to oversee his packing, which seemed to entail shaking out and refolding anything in front of her. "Just making sure," he said, waiting for her to finish rolling up one of his ties. "You haven't been on your own in the Foundry before."

"Well," said Thea, flicking an invisible speck of dust from his tie, "since you've said it about a billion times, plus the _super_ fun fact that you've got Laurel checking in on us after work, I'd say the potential for me and Roy to burn down the place is set pretty firmly at 'not going to happen'."

When Oliver didn't say anything, Thea rolled her eyes and reached for his bag. "You'll only be gone for a few days," she said, rearranging the insides like she was the one going on the trip.

Oliver tried to reclaim possession of the bag, but Thea just slapped his hand out of the way. "I mean, it's not as if you can't trust your own sister — _whoa_."

Judging from the rattle inside the bag, Oliver already knew what she was looking at. "Speedy, be careful with that, it's —"

Thea popped open the case and her jaw dropped. "Is that _mom's_ necklace?" she breathed. "Why are you bringing it to Moscow?"

Oliver gave his sister a look. "It's a present."

"Obviously," she said, angling the necklace it caught the light with a flash of rich green. "I thought the old stuff got sold after QC went under."

"It's a Dearden family heirloom," said Oliver. "Mom always kept it in her vault. I didn't touch the pieces she left for you, I just thought that the necklace would be a nice present for — for Felicity." Oliver didn't know why he was suddenly uncomfortable with the admission that he was giving Felicity the necklace. It wasn't as if he was doing anything illicit, since the necklace had been in the dusty vault for the better part of the century.

" _Nice_ is an understatement," Thea muttered."Jeez, Ollie — this is totally a _sorry-I-missed-the-birth-of-our-first-child_ present. What did you do?"

"Nothing." Oliver glanced over his shoulder, even though he knew that Felicity was still at the office. "It's a surprise for her."

Thea could be remarkably like Felicity at times when it came to seeing through his excuses. "Really," she said, with a tilt to her head. "Just like that?"

Given his history with romantic relationships, Oliver couldn't really claim that Thea was being unreasonably suspicious. His track record with relationships either veered towards overlong and destructive, or short-lived and nuclear.

Oliver thought about trying to explain Isabel Rochev and how the last Moscow trip turned out, but he just sighed. "It's a long story," he said.

"Well," Thea held out the open box with a smile. "I think it's a beautiful gift."

Oliver paused to look at the insides before he closed it. He wasn't exactly an expert on the subject, but there was something classically beautiful about the old Dearden family heirloom that had drawn his eye. It was an finely wrought necklace of green and white diamonds, probably commissioned for a family heiress at some point in the Dearden family history, and even though Oliver knew that Felicity's taste veered more towards simplistic, it just felt…right.

"I think mom would have approved," he said, tentatively touching the dark velvet lining.

Thea kissed him on the cheek. "Absolutely."

Oliver smiled and tucked the box carefully away, under the watchful eye of his only family left in the world. Thea nudged him with her knee. "I'm pretty sure the Dearden vault has a diamond ring or two," she said, watching him expectantly.

Oliver's brows contracted. "Ring?"

It was Thea's turn to sigh. "Fiancée. Ring. Marriage. Come to think of it — have you two even _thought_ about setting a date? You know, normal engaged-couple stuff?"

Oliver cleared his throat. "We're both…a little busy for that, what with our jobs and secret identities," he answered, very dryly.

"Normal is underrated, Ollie." Thea swung her legs, perched on the table. "I'm pretty sure this is the only time you'll be getting married, so make it count."

"Make what count?" Roy appeared out of nowhere, a fistful of arrows in one hand, his hoodie in the other. "Dig's here. Said something about an ARGUS jet."

Thea propped her elbow on Roy's shoulder like an armrest. "Too fancy for commercial airlines, are we?"

Oliver smiled to himself as he slid the bag from the table. "Be good," he said, pressing a kiss into the side of her head.

Thea hopped down from the table to give him a proper hug. "Normal people seal the deal with a ring," she said, into the front of his shirt.

Oliver had to laugh as he pulled away. "I'll look into it."

Roy's expression was sheepish — he'd never been comfortable with goodbyes.

"I swear that if anything happens to the Foundry while you're gone — I'll have the courtesy to perform harakiri before you get back," he said, with a straight face.

Oliver gave him a look. Chronic worrying was just in his nature, and despite how capable Roy was in the field, Oliver was nervous about leaving the city in their hands.

Roy rolled his eyes. "I'm kidding. Dude — it's just a few days, and it's not the first time you've been gone. I can do this. You just worry about finding Knyazev."

"All right," said Oliver, and stretched out an open hand to Roy. "Take care of Thea."

"I'm _right_ here," she said.

Roy smiled and gripped Oliver's hand. "I promise."

They all looked around when Diggle reached the bottom of the staircase, car keys in hand.

"The ARGUS jet's waiting for us — you all set?"

Oliver nodded. "Not too late to back out," he said, lightly.

Diggle chuckled. "Not a chance. You went to Moscow for me — it's about time I returned the favor."

* * *

Thank God it wasn't the same hotel. Felicity probably would have needed a lot more red wine if they'd been booked into the same place as last time. But Ray liked things sleek and shiny, and the corporate five-star was about as new and un-medieval as it got.

"Huh. The hotel has a world-class gym," said Ray, reading off the pamphlet left on their table. "We should go running, it usually helps with the jet lag —"

Felicity choked, not-so-subtly, on her food. Ray hastily pushed the wine towards her, which she downed in a few gulps. "I'm going to start a penalty system for whenever you ask me to exercise," she gasped, setting down her empty wineglass.

Ray laughed. "Sorry. Cabin pressure makes me all wonky."

"Shouldn't you be used to that by now?" Felicity asked, reaching for her spoon again. "What with the high-altitude-equipped death-suit?"

"You know, it physically hurts me when you call my baby a death-suit." Ray splayed a hand over his heart for emphasis. "If we weren't friends, I'd say you didn't like her."

" _Her_?"

Ray looked momentarily confused. "Yeah — like how ships are always female, and my suit —"

Felicity reached for her wine. "There are _so_ many things wrong with that image."

"Pardon me." One of the staff from the front desk had approached their table.

"Hi!" said Felicity, much louder than she meant to. "Yes?"

"Your rooms are ready — so sorry for the earlier inconvenience." The nice lady was all smiles and first-class hospitality, blissfully ignorant as to the content of the conversation she'd (thankfully) cut short.

Felicity nearly tore off the tablecloth in her haste to get out of her chair. "Ray — why don't you just stay here, and I'll get the keys. Okay? Okay."

* * *

Did Ray have a middle name? Seemed like he did. Felicity scrawled something unintelligible on the line meant for his signature, spiking the _P_ in Palmer to make it look more masculine. On reflection, she added a tiny heart in the corner, just for kicks.

If the lady at the front desk — Inga, according to her badge — noticed, she didn't comment.

"Here you are," she said, sliding two envelopes across the table. "Two executive suites, 2703 and 2708. Your luggage will be sent up shortly."

"Great, thank you," said Felicity, palming the keys as she reached for her handbag. She was supposed to tip, right? Her mother was a cocktail waitress, so she _knew_ this kind of math. The exchange rate to rubles, on the other hand, not so much.

"Oh no, ma'am, thank you," said Inga, holding her hands up in polite refusal. "Your husband already took care of that when he checked in."

Felicity looked up so fast she nearly twisted a muscle. "M-my what?" she said, wondering if the cabin pressure had done something funky with her hearing.

"Your husband checked in a few minutes ago." Inga smiled, as if hotel guests freaking out over imaginary husbands didn't faze her at all.

 _Oliver_.

Felicity straightened her features into something more believable as she asked, casually, "Uh — so which room is that?"

"2708, Ms. Smoak," Inga said, smoothly. "Enjoy your stay in Moscow."

"Right," said Felicity, looking over her shoulder to see Ray waiting for her by the elevators. "Should be fun."

* * *

The elevator doors opened soundlessly and let them out onto the 27th floor.

"Uh, Felicity?" said Ray, holding the doors open. "This is where you get out."

"Right — sorry!" Felicity uprooted her feet from the floor and stepped out into the hushed hallway. She'd been too busy overanalyzing the potential implications of Ray finding out from the front desk that she had a husband — or that said husband was Oliver Queen.

Because that kind of thing came up in regular conversations with the employees stationed at a hotel front desk.

Felicity tried not to look too shifty as she located her room — just a few doors down from Ray's — because she was on the lookout for her imaginary husband.

"Catch you later," Ray said, maneuvering his carry-on through the door with enviable grace, while she had to nudge and prod hers with the point of her shoe.

After Felicity finally got the door closed behind her, she stayed pressed against it for a few seconds, hurriedly taking in her surroundings. The short hallway faced a pristine living room, colored red-blue by the sunset even though it was about eight in the evening.

She stepped carefully up to what she guessed was the bedroom door, and upon reflection, pulled off a high-heeled shoe to use as a potential weapon.

"If you're a serial killer," she called, "I have a pointy shoe and almost _no_ physical coordination. I could take out an eye — which would suck for you, because 20/20 vision is pretty important for serial murders such as yourself —"

There was a faint cough from the other side of the doors, as if someone had choked back a laugh. "Felicity — it's me."

"Oh thank God." Felicity wrenched the doors open, and found Oliver sitting on the foot of the bed with a half-eaten apple and a book. In Russian — because why not?

"Hi," he said, nonchalantly taking a bite out of the apple.

"So," she said, drumming her fingers on the doorframe. "Apparently we're _married_?"

Oliver looked like he was trying not to laugh as he swallowed his mouthful of apple. "I had to get inside the room, didn't I?" he said, sounding very amused.

It was nearly always too difficult to stay mad at him, especially when he looked at her the way he did. Like his smile was meant for her — like he would have gladly knelt at her feet.

Well, they had a hotel suite to themselves for a few days, so Felicity was going to make it happen sometime.

But first things first — she still had a shoe in her hand.

Felicity muttered something inarticulate and braced herself against the door so she could work the other shoe off her foot. While she looked for a place to put them, she could practically feel her heart thudding against her collarbone. It wasn't the about-to-ralph kind of nervousness, but it was a squirmy kind of anxiety, the kind that made it difficult to look Oliver in the eye.

They were in _Moscow_. Felicity hadn't really thought much of it at the time, what with the whole Knyazev thing and her boss tagging along for the trip, but now that she was alone with Oliver — in a really, _really_ nice hotel suite, by the way — she was inexplicably, unaccountably nervous.

Well, _that_ was a big fat lie. She knew why she was nervous.

Because the last time Oliver had been in Moscow, he'd been in a presidential suite (different hotel, but still) sleeping with a gorgeous woman who'd not only had an affair with his father, but later teamed up with his arch-enemy to try and burn Starling to the ground.

Fun times.

Felicity looked up and realized that Oliver was watching her. With concern, as if this had all occurred to him before (surprisingly, since he wasn't exactly known for his emotional sensitivity). Given how the last trip to Moscow turned out, she also sensed that he wasn't going to lay a finger on her unless she made the first move.

Baby steps, always baby steps with them.

Felicity padded barefoot over to Oliver, who laid his book aside as she approached. "Hi," she said, standing between his knees with her hands resting on his shoulders. They leaned into each other like it was the end of a long day, fitting naturally together from both habit and instinct.

"How was your flight?" he asked, his head tilted back so that he could see her.

Felicity brushed a loose fall of hair behind her ear. "Long," she said, trailing her fingertips down the side of his face. There was a look in Oliver's eyes — a sort of languid ease uncharacteristic of his usual frown-and-worry, a look she was starting to recognize as exclusive for when he was with her. "Started to miss my husband about five hours in," she added, teasingly.

Oliver's mouth twitched. "Really," he murmured, pulling her onto his lap.

Felicity closed her eyes as his lips found her throat, the hollow behind her ear, unhurried, easy kisses that made it very hard to remember what she'd been worried about…but not the twelve hours of plane and airport she had yet to shower off. "I was — ah — going to — shower," she said, seizing on the train of thought before she forgot it.

"Mm," said Oliver, very close to her ear.

"If you're — um — interested — we could —"

She whooped in surprise when Oliver lifted her up in his arms, a sound that turned into a laugh when he carried her inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha. Keep reading.


	8. Moscow

"Oliver — _careful_ —!"

Oliver was only dimly aware of the muffled crash from something overturning on the bathroom counter. But he was acutely aware of Felicity's lips against his, her hands fisted in his hair, and the feel of her body sliding down the length of his as he set her down in the middle of the bathroom floor. Oliver's hands were still around her waist, his mouth on hers even while she stumbled backwards, groping clumsily behind her for the shower faucet. Oliver felt the hot water spurt across his back when she finally found the controls, and her laugh against his mouth as she dragged him out of the spray and back onto the bathroom floor.

Neither of them could pretend they possessed the last vestiges of grace and self-control — not when they each fumbled with the other's clothes, neither of them willing to break apart, not even to speed up the process. Her skirt slid down the length of her legs, kicked easily out of the way — he raised his arms over his head as Felicity edged his shirt up and off — starting at the nip of her teeth across his chest — her nails against his belly when she yanked his jeans down over his legs.

Nearly there — very near now.

Water darkened the tangled heap of clothes in the middle of the bathroom floor, unhindered by the shower door they'd neglected to close. Their hands left streaks in the bathroom mirror, fogged an indistinct gray by the steam billowing through the open door.

"Shower's — _mmf_ — running —" Felicity broke off from a kiss to fumble with the tiny buttons on her shirt, which had stubbornly resisted her efforts and his. It was the only piece of clothing still between them, clinging to her body from the hot steam.

"Should — have — worn — a dress — _frack_ —" Felicity yanked ineffectually at the front of her shirt, gasping with frustration.

"Let me," Oliver breathed, against her neck. She turned obediently to face the mirror while Oliver's hands tracked the curve of her waist, inching the fabric higher and higher until — Felicity arched reflexively against him with an inarticulate sound.

For this, Oliver was willing to take his time, gliding across the planes and curves of soft skin beneath her shirt, a thrilling secret long-since memorized, a body beautiful with or without her scars. She made the same noise again, bent helplessly over the bathroom counter with her fingers splayed against the mirror.

" _Oliver_ ," she gasped, writhing beneath him.

There was an audible tear and the faint sound of a button as it pinged against the floor. Oliver's lips found the curve of her bare shoulder, tugging the fabric down with his mouth and hands until they were finally standing skin to skin, their pulses thudding as one.

Oliver gently shifted Felicity's hair across her shoulder, exposing the back of her neck. As he tracked languorous kisses along her skin, Felicity's breathing steadily grew more ragged. "That's — not fair," she said, almost a groan, and Oliver released her with a smile.

Felicity spun around immediately, practically teetering on her toes to meet him halfway. Her hands were firm and insistent, pulling his face down to hers, until their mouths clashed with something resembling ferocity. All gentleness had burned away, and they were suddenly a chaotic jumble of entwined limbs and feverish hands and parted lips. Oliver felt Felicity's mouth curve against his, and knew she was smiling when he lifted her off the ground. She was light enough for him to carry, and he did just that — through the doors and under the jets of hot water that poured off them both.

The heat of the water made them both gasp in surprise. They were both drenched within seconds, skin sliding on skin, and each kiss was hungry, steadily building towards the inevitable result. Oliver silently braced his hands under her thighs so she wouldn't slip against the damp tiles, dividing her weight between himself and the wall. Felicity's arms came to rest behind his neck and Oliver felt her legs tighten around him in wordless anticipation, just before he eased himself inside her.

A small, breathy sound escaped her lips, almost a gasp and very nearly a word. They were frozen in excruciating stillness, foreheads pressed together as if they didn't dare to move. Slowly, carefully, Oliver reached up to brush away the darkened hair sticking to her face and ran his thumb down the curve of her cheek, across her lower lip. When they were alone — like this — Oliver couldn't fathom anyone else but her, just her. But at the same time he was always torn between dueling urges, both of them fighting for supremacy. He wanted to postpone the moment but also press ahead, he wanted to cherish the seconds without urgency but also to lose himself in the inevitable desperation.

Moscow had never been like _this_.

For a moment, they remained still under the downpour — looking at each other — caught in an exquisitely long second of restraint. Felicity pulled him closer — as if that was possible — until he could feel her heart beating strong inside her chest, flush against his own, and her lips were at his ear.

"It feels really good having you inside me," she murmured, a joke that never got old, and they shook with laughter in each other's arms. Oliver loved the sound of her laugh, loved that she had never looked more beautiful to him than at that moment, naked in his arms and smiling at him under the rushing water.

Oliver whispered her name before he kissed her again, and then, gently, because there was all the time in the world, they began to move.

* * *

Oliver stirred in his sleep. Felicity looked over at him, but he didn't wake. The perks of being very good at the salmon ladder and existing in peak physical condition meant that Oliver had done most of the work in the shower. Not that she was complaining _per se_ (it was very nice for her), it just made her wonder whether Oliver was asleep or passed out from tiredness.

She rested a hand on his chest, still in the slow rise-and-fall rhythm of sleep, and adjusted the tablet on her knees with the other. Starling City was a good eight hours behind Moscow time, so even at — she glanced at the clock — midnight, her brain was stubbornly staying awake.

So she was curled up under the covers, reading through and responding to the mass of emails she'd been getting since arriving in Moscow. Being the Vice-President of a billion-dollar company meant that work was all-hours, regardless of time zones and secret fiancés waiting for her in hotel suites.

Felicity padded into the bathroom for a drink of water, and saw in the mirror that her face was flushed red — probably from embarrassment rather than overheating (what with the fact that she had nothing on except a bathrobe). She leaned against the sink and drank her water, half-heartedly toeing the pile of discarded clothing — both hers and Oliver's — just laying there on the bathroom tiles. A laugh bubbled up in her throat — impossible to stifle — because the whole debacle with Isabel was so very gone, and so decidedly a non-issue. Felicity bit her lip and laughed again, flushed pink with the satisfaction of it.

A tiny gold button rolled out of the heap at her prodding. She stooped to pick it up and rolled it around in her hand while she sipped. It belonged on a semi-ripped blouse, similarly discarded on the ground. Felicity quite liked the idea of Oliver ripping her clothes off, not so much the telltale redness on her neck and shoulders after a particularly exploratory session. Not that she had much experience in that area outside Oliver — but beards did tend to chafe. She hunted around the bathroom amenities for lotion and was just massaging it into her neck when she heard the knock on the door.

Oliver was still asleep when Felicity shut the bedroom doors behind her with a faint click, hurrying out into the living room, tightening the ties on her bathrobe as she did.

The knocking was getting more insistent, like the person hadn't heard of wrist fatigue.

" _Coming_ ," Felicity said, and yanked the door open with more force than was probably necessary.

She really wished she hadn't.

"Oh good, you're awake," said Ray. "Bad time?"

_Frack._

"Uh," said Felicity, but Ray was already inside the room, and she didn't quite understand how.

For a pretty indecent time of night, he was a ball of nervy energy, hand gestures and pacing while he talked, completely oblivious to the fact that she was A) wearing a bathrobe, and that B) her hair was still damp and in a state that could only be politely described as _matted_. Felicity subtly reached up to smooth it down, thanking her semi-lucky stars that her hair was incapable of insinuating that she'd just had sex (her hair was incapable of being sexy, period).

This didn't happen a lot, but Ray didn't look all that great himself. She didn't know what he'd been doing since check-in, but he was wearing the same suit, sans the jacket and tie. As if that wasn't worrying enough, his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and there was a suspicious black smudge down the front of his shirt.

"So the Marinovs are meeting us for dinner tomorrow night, and I was just thinking — what if I explained the QI-Palmer Tech deal — I mean, they're the ones giving us the gallium, and I'm sure I'd want to know what my stuff is being used for —"

Felicity shook her head. "Ray, we haven't announced the deal yet, it's probably not a good —"

"Oh, I have a guy down in the Financial Times and it could be front page news by tomorrow — it's just a matter of whether Oliver might say yes." Ray glanced up from his phone. "You guys are friends, right? What would he say?"

_Ask him yourself, he's asleep next door._

The pacing was giving her vertigo. Felicity put her hands firmly on Ray's shoulders and plonked him down onto the couch, so that he was forced to sit still. "Ray," she said, and he looked up at her quizzically, as if he couldn't imagine what the problem was. "I know you want to reassure the investors that everything's all right, and if breaking the news still looks like a good idea over a cup of coffee tomorrow, then I'm with you on this. But it's late, and you should be getting some sleep. People don't generally make great decisions at this time of night — trust me, I live near a nightclub."

Ray rubbed absentmindedly at his jaw, where there was a pretty decent five o'clock shadow. "Maybe later," he muttered, very obviously not paying attention. "Why's your suitcase in the middle of the living room? Haven't you unpacked?"

Felicity glanced around. Frack. Her bag was — a little conspicuously — in the center of the room. The porter must have come and gone while she/they had been enjoying that shower (he must have heard some things, poor guy).

Felicity stepped pointedly into Ray's sight line, blocking his view of the suitcase. "I was working. Then I went…for a bath. A long one. _Really_ , epically, long."

Ray squinted at her, as if he was trying to figure out if he was seeing straight, while Felicity studied him in silence.

"You look like hell," she commented — not for the first time that week — in the face of someone with a formidable sense of stubbornness.

"Yeah, well," Ray cricked his neck with a wince. "Pretty sure it's the caffeine."

"Ray," she said, pulling an ottoman over to use as a seat. "Are you sleeping? Is this about the Marinovs or something else?"

Their eyes met, and Ray smiled with an uncharacteristic trace of morbid humor. "It's always something else," he said.

Felicity shifted, tucking her legs beneath her on the cushion. "Is this about Anna?" she asked, carefully.

Ray shook his head. "No — I don't think so. I think it was the meeting — the guns —" He broke off with a frustrated noise. "Just not used to being shot at, I guess."

"You're the ATOM," Felicity reminded him, gently. "Pretty sure that comes with the job."

"As the ATOM, yeah," said Ray, rubbing his jaw again. "I know it doesn't make sense — and I'm sorry I had to barge into your hotel room to say this — but I don't think I'm ever going to get used to being shot at when I'm Ray Palmer."

It was Felicity's turn to shake her head, because she understood. On some level, even without her experience with masks and disguises, she understood. It was different being shot at while being the vigilante — because that was the job, a whole other identity that embodied the sense of power, the power that came with the fancy tech suit or the quiver of special arrows. The daylight face, the one without the mask, it was the safe haven, the bubble.

Supposed to be, anyway.

Finding out that wasn't always true — it wasn't easy, and she should have spotted it sooner. Even if she wasn't Ray's partner, she was his friend, and he'd trusted her with his secret. A pretty big one, even in the general trend of gigantic secrets. She owed him that much at least.

"Do you know why?" she asked. "I mean — I know your mask isn't exactly some greasepaint and a hood — but is there a chance that someone found out?"

"Actually, greasepaint does very little in an urban setting," said Ray, looking down at his hands, " _Unless_ you're suggesting I pigment the ATOM suit to something a little less ostentatious, which frankly does make sense —"

Felicity sighed. "Ray."

"Sorry." Ray paused mid-babble, shooting an apologetic smile in her direction. "And in answer to your question — no, my visor uses electrochromic technology to hide my face, and most of the time I'm moving too fast anyway."

"O-kay — okay." Felicity pushed her hair behind her ears, her mind racing. Being shot at was bad, but secret identities becoming not-so-secret, that was worse. "That's good. So it's just a run-of-the-mill sniper, then."

Ray raised his eyebrows. "Thanks," he said.

"I didn't mean it like that," she said, hastily.

"I know you don't."

But Ray's smile was gone before it could linger, and Felicity knew he wasn't taking it well. She recognized something in his expression — traces of pride, not to mention a dangerous (and unparalleled) habit for taking big matters into his own hands.

Wow, Ray and Oliver really did have a lot in common.

"Hey," she said, leaning a little closer. "Sometimes it's better to be underestimated. It may seem like a whole lot of suck, but it's a good way to stay alive."

Ray didn't say anything for what seemed like a long moment, watching her intently. "You're right," he said, finally. "Thanks for the — weirdly — depressing pep talk."

"Not at all — I'll just bill you for my overtime." Felicity said, with a teasing smile.

This time, Ray's laugh was a real one. "Sorry," he said, standing up to go. "Didn't mean to keep you from your bath. BTW, I'm more of a pool person myself."

"I've noticed," Felicity said, without thinking.

There was a very long pause. Somewhere far, far, away, the verbally coherent Felicity Smoak had face-palmed in shame. _Oh, and you'd been doing_ so _well._

Felicity pinched the folds of her bathrobe closed with one hand and attempted to gracefully slide off the ottoman with the other. "I mean — not — really." She was waving her hands now. Very bad sign of incoherence. "Just the build — it's a swimmer's build — I've seen — shirtless — and stuff — okay, how about I just —"

Felicity stopped and took a deep breath, eyeing Ray warily through her fingers. "I mean," she said, muffled by her own hands, "I have so unequivocally _not_ noticed."

Ray's face was — unexpectedly — a little pink. She sympathized. It wasn't easy being sexually harassed by your VP. He made a few (admirable) false starts at saying something back, breaking off each time to laugh. At least he covered his mouth to do it.

"Let's just chalk this up to me having no social skills?" Felicity said, gingerly.

Ray nodded enthusiastically and started towards the door, while Felicity put her hands in her hair and tried not to yank.

But the door never opened.

"Felicity," Ray said, suddenly.

Something in his voice made her look around, a little startled. Ray was standing by the door, but his hands were in his pockets and he was standing very straight, his expression abruptly serious. "Earlier — your question about someone finding out? The only people who know about me are Professor Hyatt…and you," he said, softly.

"Ray…" Felicity began, but Ray cut her off with a shake of his head.

"I know," he said, vehemently. "I know you wouldn't. I just —" He took a breath, lifting his shoulders as he did. A shrug and a smile, so effortlessly him. "I just thought you should know."

"I swear —"

"— I know." Ray smiled, his hand on the doorknob. "You don't have to tell me."

Even though she was disheveled and standing in the middle of the living room wearing her bathrobe, Felicity returned his smile without shyness. "Goodnight, Ray," she said.

"Goodnight, Felicity."

Ray was halfway out the door when he called, over his shoulder:

"BTW, it's fine if you noticed."

Felicity laughed as the door slammed.

* * *

Felicity shivered from the chill and clutched the robe tight around her body as she eased the bedroom door open. The curtains were still drawn across the windows, making it hard to see what was what in the rumpled bed. It took her eyes a bit to adjust, but she could see that both sides of the bed were definitely empty.

"You're back."

Felicity yelped and jumped painfully into the door.

" _Jesus_." She rubbed her lower back where the handle had poked into her spine. "I thought you were asleep," she said, breathlessly.

Oliver was unequivocally _not_ asleep. He was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, naked except for the towel around his waist. Seeing him like that helped with the shock, to be honest, but she was still a little indignant at being startled.

"Was that Ray Palmer?" he asked, moving to sit at the foot of the bed.

Meanwhile, Felicity hunted for the open bottle of lotion she'd left somewhere in the room. "Yeah," she answered, distractedly. "He just came by to talk about the meeting tomorrow."

When Oliver didn't say anything, Felicity looked up. There was something curiously still and controlled about Oliver's expression.

"I didn't know Palmer was in the habit of coming to your room," he commented, his hands resting in his lap.

With feigned nonchalance, it seemed.

"Oliver," said Felicity. "Ray doesn't see me that way. The word vomits and utter lack of physical coordination aren't exactly conducive to romance."

"We both know that's not true," Oliver said, with a hint of a smile.

For the second time that day, Felicity moved to stand in front of Oliver, crossing her hands behind his neck. A jealous Oliver wasn't really something she'd seen recently, and she wondered how to deal with his unscheduled reappearance.

Oliver pressed a kiss into her hand, and it had an air of reconciliation about it. "It's easy to fall in love with you," he said, looking up at her. "I speak from experience."

Felicity smiled. "And it's impossible to fall out of it," she answered. "Now _I'm_ speaking from experience."

Oliver exhaled, and met her eyes with unflinching, unapologetic earnestness. "I love you," he said, and his soul was bare for her to see in those eyes.

Felicity smiled. Even though he'd said it more times than she remembered, the words never failed to send a thrill up her spine, to cause a flutter of her pulse. She bent and kissed him softly on the mouth.

"I love you," she whispered back.

Oliver made a noise at the back of his throat, and she felt his hands around her waist, sliding easily into the fold of her robe. Felicity curled her fingers into his damp, spiky hair, luxuriating in the feeling of his kisses on her neck, following a trail down to her collarbone, then lower still.

The knot around her waist came undone, and Felicity felt her bare skin prickle with goosebumps, but she didn't move away. She could feel the calluses in his palm, the dry heat of his touch on her hips, the warmth of his breath fanning across sensitive skin.

"Oliver," she said, more out of curiosity than shyness. "It's late."

But Oliver's mouth was too preoccupied to articulate an answer, and the shoulders of her robe slipped still further. Felicity closed her eyes, swaying unsteadily on her feet because her knees had seemingly forgotten how to keep her upright.

Not fair, _very_ not fair.

" _Oliver_." She summoned every last ounce of her self-control, braced her hands on his shoulders, and pushed.

The breath rushed out of Felicity's lungs when they hit the bed, but she was already climbing on top of Oliver with as much grace (i.e. not much) that she could manage.

"My turn," she said breathlessly, and relished the flicker of surprise in his eyes before she leaned in to kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okie, so as promised, I've done the smutty/sexy times chapter. The age of smut probably isn't going to end yet, since it's Moscow *shrugs*.
> 
> *Things I realized about writing this:
> 
> 1) My 8tracks listening history will become very, VERY dodgy.
> 
> 2) Never use the internet for 'extra research', it is a deep dark hole I will have great trouble climbing out of.
> 
> 3) Sentences/scenes that looked 'good' when I wrote them at 11PM last night do NOT look that great in the cold light of day.
> 
> 4) Harder than it looks, especially when your sinus allergies are acting up again.
> 
> Random answers:
> 
> \- Regarding the question about Felicity and Oliver having sex in the fic, I think at this point it's safe to assume that the answer is HELL YES.
> 
> \- YAAAAS VIOLA FREAKING DAVIS IS PLAYING AMANDA WALLER IN THE SUICIDE SQUAD MOVIE. (Side note, I kinda miss Waller, wish she was still around - again, damn sequels and their continuity issues)
> 
> \- Dear Arrow Writers: PLEASE STOP KILLING MEMBERS OF TEAM ARROW. THERE ARE OTHER REASONS TO SUIT UP, NOT JUST A DEATH. I should just get off Tumblr to avoid spoilers, but classes get boring.
> 
> Stay awesome, guys. More Moscow next chapter.


	9. Right Side Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooooo. Sorry for the late-ish update. Got a couple of big papers due.

Diggle woke to find the sun blazing in his eyes. He sat up with a low grunt, leaning back against the headboard with his arms behind his head. His computer was half-open on the floor beside the bed, exactly where he'd left it before turning in for the night.

The right side of the bed was rumpled, a telltale depression in the pillow from where she'd slept, traces of her perfume lingering on the covers.

"Morning."

Diggle looked around to find Lyla watching him from the doorway. He couldn't remember the number of times he'd woken up to see her standing there — leaning her head against the frame, an easy smile of contentment warming her features. Each time was always a surprise to him, and he could have watched her forever — the fiercely independent and beautiful Lyla Michaels.

"Good morning," he said, returning her smile. "Didn't hear you come in."

Lyla tightened the sash on her silk robe, instinctively lingering on the slight bulge of her belly. She was barely showing, even at three months. "Got held up in Kaznia," she answered, as her foot absently traced circles in the ground. From her expression, she was very aware that he was distracted by the smooth line of her bare leg. "Defused the situation."

Their eyes met from across the room, and they each knew what the other was thinking.

"I missed you," he said, softly. "Come back to bed."

* * *

Lyla lifted her head from Diggle's shoulder. "You were working late," she said sleepily, glancing at the computer lying on the floor. "Find anything?"

Diggle stretched and felt the joints in his back crick. "Not yet," he said, relaxing against the pillows again. "But something'll turn up."

"I wish I could help," she said, kissing the back of his hand. Diggle shook his head and pulled her close. He knew that she'd tried her best, but there were other — and more pressing — concerns for the Head of ARGUS. Especially now with a second baby on the way, he didn't want to worry her more than he had to.

Lyla rested her chin on his chest, watching him in concern. Of all people, she knew what Andy's death meant to him, how it had both destroyed and defined him, how it led him to see Oliver as a brother, how it had brought the two of them back together for a second chance.

Diggle stroked her face, the scattering of freckles across her cheeks, the tiny lines at the corners of her pale green eyes. "The answers aren't with ARGUS," he said, heavily. It was hard to admit, but it was the truth. Deadshot was the only link to Andy's murder and he'd already told them everything he knew — HIVE had targeted Andy.

Now he needed to find out why.

Lyla nodded, a smile of understanding flickering across her face. "Okay, then." She was kissing his neck now. "So what does your day in Moscow look like?"

Diggle chuckled, shifting lower in the bed to accommodate her. "Meeting Oliver later — keep him out of trouble — run of the mill stuff for us."

"Out of trouble?" Lyla raised her head, eyeing him skeptically. "More like aiding and abetting."

Diggle couldn't help but smile at the accuracy of it. She knew him too well. "Guilty," he said, and felt her lips curve in a smile. "So breakfast — or bed?"

"Both," Lyla murmured, between kisses. "Always both."

Diggle kissed her again before he sat up, reaching for the phone on the bedside table. He was just about to call when a thought unexpectedly occurred to him, and he turned to Lyla. She'd been in the middle of putting on her robe, and sensing his gaze, looked quizzically at him. "Johnny?"

"Amanda must have interrogated everyone in the Suicide Squad at some point. Do you still have the transcript of Deadshot's session?"

Lyla's expression turned preoccupied. "That's why I was in Kaznia, actually."

They'd both — without quite realizing it — shifted positions. Diggle had turned sideways, his shoulder resting against the headboard. Lyla's pose mirrored his, her chin propped up on her hand, her legs curled beneath her. This was habit. When they'd first gotten back together, they'd stayed up all night talking like this — sharing confidences, whispering secrets. The ones they could share, anyway.

"What's wrong?" Diggle asked, warily.

"Amanda's death caused… _complications_ for ARGUS. For me. Amanda wasn't like any of her predecessors. I know what you think of her, but you have to agree that she was bold, Johnny. She made ARGUS what it is today. Countless divisions, assets, projects…they're all her. She went above and beyond what any of them ever did — both good, and bad —"

"—like the Suicide Squad," Diggle added, earning him a pointed look from Lyla. They'd traditionally never seen eye-to-eye on the gray area, and Amanda Waller was about as gray as it got.

"The Suicide Squad was her brainchild, but it wasn't the only one. Amanda had a whole slate of confidential programs she kept in her personal file — the Alpha drive. Protocol dictates that each Director should pass on the Alpha drive to their successor, but given the way she died, we've had to assume that Amanda didn't have the chance to pass on that information. Now there's a gap in our records because of that missing drive. There could be hundreds of projects in operation without our knowledge, and without knowing what exactly ARGUS is bankrolling —"

"—if it blows up, you'll find out the same time everyone else does."

Lyla nodded, grimly. "And that's not ARGUS's style. We deal with containment and neutralization of threats, and given what I know about Amanda's moral code, I need to make that factual assessment of everything she was involved in — before it comes back to bite us."

"So how does this relate to the civil war in Kaznia?"

"The factions will fight — that's a given," Lyla said, unapologetically frank. "But I needed a reason to visit Kaznia in person. It was Amanda's first posting, and I thought there was a chance she might have hidden the drive there." Her tone already told him that it wasn't what she'd been hoping for.

Diggle frowned. "You're the Head of ARGUS — why do you need a reason to go?"

Lyla's hand clenched into a fist. "I'm being watched," she said, softly. "Amanda's death made things complicated for ARGUS. You've seen it all before, Johnny, in Afghanistan. When a warlord dies, there's always a void. The vultures descend, and the ambitious ones make the grab for power."

"Who?" Diggle straightened up. "Who's trying to take over?"

Lyla smiled tiredly and kissed his hand again, silently telling him that he was being naive. "Oh, Johnny. There's always somebody trying to take over."

"I thought Colonel Trevor was always on your side."

"He is. But the higher-ups in the chain of command seem to think that since I was trained by Amanda, I'm likely to succumb to her same moral failings. Trevor's backing me, but the others are circling, trying to find a reason to catch me out. There's a rumor about an agent Dahrk — from the London division — apparently the higher-ups think he's a potential candidate for the job."

"That's insane, after all you've done for ARGUS, after Amanda's mistakes —"

"Winston Churchill was kicked out of office after winning the Second World War. So I'm not exactly in the worst company there," Lyla said, wryly. "He was elected because of a war — and without that war to fight — he was just…obsolete. It's the same for me. I took Amanda's place because ARGUS was at war, but it's peacetime now, and I'm the persistent reminder of a time they'd rather not remember."

Diggle shook his head, rejecting Lyla's unforgivingly shrewd assessment of her own worth. "Felicity could help find the file. Amanda must have left some trace of it — a digital footprint. Something that important doesn't just disappear."

"I thought about asking her, but…" Lyla glanced at him. "I've asked too much of her already. She was the only one who survived Waller's execution — the last thing I want to do is bring up something she'd rather forget."

Diggle couldn't think of anything further from the truth as he pulled Lyla close, and they nestled into each other. "All that research on the computer? Felicity helped me find it. That girl is one of the brightest human beings I've ever met, she will do _anything_ for her friends, and she despises an unsolved mystery. Asking her for help is at least worth the attempt."

Lyla smiled, resting her head on his chest. "I will — but not now."

"Why not?"

Lyla laughed, patting his face like he'd said something amusingly silly. "She's with Oliver, and if they're anything like us — what do you think they're doing right now?"

* * *

"Say what you will about the Russians, but their traffic cams have twice the amount of encryption than Starling City's," said Felicity, puffing out her cheeks as she typed.

"Is that going to be a problem?" Oliver's voice came from somewhere near her stomach. That, coupled with the not-unpleasant friction of his beard against her skin, made for a _very_ nice Friday morning.

Felicity sighed, and went back to her program. "I'm _really_ starting to feel underestimated here."

Oliver's laugh tickled her belly. "Tell me, then."

The tablet was propped up between them, so he couldn't see that she was smiling too. "As of ten minutes ago, I've sent Trojans to about — oof — _fifty_ employees in the Moscow Department of Transport. The second a poor, unsuspecting soul opens a contaminated email about some pretty harmless vacation packages, I'll have a back entrance into the traffic cam network," she explained. "The FSB, on the other hand, a little more difficult. But difficult, I can handle."

Oliver had gone very still, as one did when being told that their significant other had hacked into a federal database run by some pretty scary people. "Felicity," he said, "the FSB is —"

"Worse than the FBI and NSA combined, I know, _but_ they control the CCTV on every street corner. And it's very nice how much you trust your Russian buddies even though they tried to shoot you — on _numerous_ occasions, by the way — but if you turn out to be wrong, you'll be walking into a trap. Call it the over-worrying expected of a fiancée. Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to hack into an ARGUS satellite."

Oliver lifted his head from where it'd been resting on her stomach. "I'm flattered," he said, and pressed a kiss into her skin.

It tickled. Felicity laughed and groped for her phone on the bedside table, coming up with Oliver's instead. "Have you heard from Dig?" she asked, guessing his password on the second try and swiping through to his contacts.

Oliver didn't even look surprised that she'd gotten into his phone. "He messaged me this morning. Lyla stopped by on her way back from Kaznia, and he'll meet me in the afternoon."

"Since when?" Felicity checked her own phone, frowning. "He didn't message me," she muttered, feeling a little left out.

"He knows you're with me," Oliver answered, evidently preoccupied by other concerns.

"Still, I mean —"

Oliver did something to her inner thigh that made her drop the phone with a gasp. Felicity looked down the length of the bed at him, breathing hard. "That's going to leave a mark," she commented.

Oliver smiled and did it again, eliciting a highly embarrassing noise on her part. Felicity closed her eyes and let the tablet rest idly on her chest. Her hack was running — nothing else to do but wait. She trailed her hand absently across the back of Oliver's head, feeling it spike under her fingertips. The sunlight coming through the tall windows made it hard to see, so she angled her body to avoid the glare, shifting her head to a new cool spot on the rumpled pillow. The light caught tiny dust motes swirling in the air, cutting broad swathes of gold on the disheveled bed — the duvet dripping off the mattress and half-on the floor, pillows haphazardly piled around them. For decency's sake, Felicity was wearing underwear and a loose bathrobe — and Oliver, well, he didn't get cold that easily (not that she was complaining).

Notwithstanding the _highly_ illegal hacking of the Russian federal government's cyber-defenses (that was just another Friday, _pshaw_ ) — it was a languid sort of morning, the promising start to a lie-in-bed-and-bask kind of day, even though Felicity had to meet Ray in the afternoon for work and dinner with the Marinovs after that.

Urgh, even just thinking about the dinner gave her anxiety.

She had a vague impression that Oliver had stopped moving. His fingers were spread across her stomach, splayed across the faint curve of her belly. His hand stayed there — for a long time — and he didn't move.

"Oliver?" She sat up slightly, resting her weight on the pillows. "If you see anything — it's probably just a food baby. We're young and stupid, but we're not careless."

He shook his head. "I know — I was just…"

Her hand went still at the back of his neck. "…just?"

"John and Lyla — it's their second." Oliver looked more thoughtful than anything else, looking down at her (very _not_ -pregnant) stomach.

Felicity knew where the conversation was going. "Oliver," she said, carefully, "are you asking me?" She tilted her head to the side, and a fall of blonde hair slipped past her shoulder, a movement that Oliver followed with his clear blue eyes, as blue as the sky in the blinding morning.

"I don't mean right now," he said, quickly, as if he was worried that she'd be scared off. "I know we still haven't done anything about the wedding, but I was just thinking — about the future."

Felicity shifted sideways to make room for Oliver, who leaned his head on his hand and looked at her across the pillow. "The future," she repeated. "And what does that look like, exactly?"

Oliver smiled, and reached for her hand. Their fingers entwined easily, perfectly steady. "In the future," he said, slowly, "it's not just the two of us anymore."

There was a question in his words, implicit, but a pretty important one. And Felicity wanted to say yes — she did. Oliver Queen, the philandering ex-playboy (and shameless drunk), telling her that he'd thought about starting a family? A) She had to be dreaming, and B) it was progress. Definitely progress.

But something still bothered her. There weren't many fond memories she associated with Nanda Parbat, and the memory in question _definitely_ wasn't a fond one — but those had the tendency to stick.

There'd been a fountain, in the middle of an underground city that no longer existed. Oliver, his hand in hers, admitting a secret he'd never told anyone before, that he'd almost had a kid, eight — nine — years ago, with a woman who wasn't Laurel.

 _I'm still not ready_ , he'd said, then.

Oliver not being ready had easily postponed any need for her to dissect her own views on the subject. But now that he'd admitted that he was, what about her?

Felicity's childhood had been about as happy as it could have been, in hindsight. No drugs, no teenage pregnancies. Sure, they ignored her in school, but weird kids who hung out all day in the computer room tended to get that kind of treatment. Or worse, if TV programs these days were being factual about bullying.

Single mom working long hours every day, an infrequent number of boyfriends who seemed to have made less of an impression on Donna than they did on her, and school, which had been purely terrible. The absence in her life that mother and daughter never really talked about, an absence keenly felt whenever Donna looked at her daughter's dark head, directed at a glowing computer screen.

Felicity was defined by a man she barely remembered, a father who'd walked out on his family and turned his daughter's world the wrong way down. When she was younger, she wrote and created fearsome things behind a computer screen to feed the hunger inside of her that ached for something different, to sustain the beautiful dreams of being somewhere that wasn't _here_ — abandoned and unloved. Now, she'd carved her place in the world, she'd found her footing, she'd found a love that defied belief, and everything felt like it was the right side up again. But there was a part of her who shied away from the idea of having kids, because what if —

What if it ran in the family? What if there was something about her that made people leave? What if _she_ was the one who wasn't ready?

Oliver's expression was serious now, and he stroked her face like he could sense her qualms. "I wouldn't do that to you," he promised. "I'm not like your father."

Felicity felt herself smile, in spite of it all. "You always come back," she agreed, feeling the heartache lessen.

Oliver cupped her face in his hands, because touch had always been a form of reassurance between them when the words failed. He kissed her under the sunlight — soft, light kisses that asked for nothing in return, nothing she wasn't prepared to give. Felicity closed her eyes and pulled him close.

She wanted to tell him — everything. Not just that she was afraid of being left behind, abandoned again, because he already knew that. She wanted to be able to tell him why.

There was a reason Felicity hated unsolved mysteries. Because the only one she'd never solved was the one that still haunted her, the mystery of why her father had walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story-wise, I feel like I'm scattering confetti (or rice) all over the place, and if it feels that way, I apologize. If my plan - my possibly nonexistent plan - pans out, it will make sense at some point. (Bwahahahaha)


	10. An Old Friend

"Oo," Felicity batted a hand absently behind her, careless of whether she got Diggle or Oliver. "Facial recognition got a hit off — God, how do you _say_ that?" She squinted at the Russian street name. "Maya—Mayask— whatever — it's Knyazev. We found him."

Felicity swiveled in her chair while Oliver scrutinized the screen over her shoulder. She exchanged a glance with Diggle behind Oliver's back, the both of them waiting for him to decide on this one. It wasn't as if they were part of an elitist, violent Russian crime syndicate anyway.

"I guess even the heads of crime organizations need some air," Diggle commented. Knyazev was on the rooftop of a squat building the Bratva used as a front for its Moscow operations, as one did. Maybe he was having one of those super-villain-mob-boss moments of triumph, surveying the smoggy Moscow skyline.

Felicity realized something.

"Is that the bar you guys went to?" she said, indignantly. "The last time we were in Moscow — when you made me take a cab with the crazy sword lady?"

It was Oliver and Diggle's turn to look at each other, telegraphing one of those _guy_ looks that she didn't have the dictionary for.

"No offense, Felicity, but Knyazev doesn't really like Americans." At least Oliver looked mildly apologetic, though she would have preferred it if he didn't also look 75% amused, as if he was imagining her babbling to his old friend in the Russian mob.

"Hey," she said. " _Hey_. You need me on this one, babbling or not."

Oliver's hand was warm against her back as he bent and kissed her. Perks of having a ponytail — more exposure. A quick kiss on the temple, but progress considering how he usually kept things discreet. Still, Felicity made a face at him. Just because he was being mature didn't mean she had to reciprocate.

"So now what, Oliver?" Diggle asked, looking at them like he was the one amused.

"Now," said Oliver — in a voice Felicity thought was inappropriately calm, given the circumstances — and reached for his phone, "I make a call."

Felicity gave him a look of the _seriously?_ variety. "You had his phone number the whole time?"

Oliver's fingertips brushed the back of her hand. "I have to see his face if I want to make sure he's not bluffing on this one. People forget to tell a lie with their whole body when they're on the phone."

The way he said it made Felicity wonder. Three guesses who'd taught him that — how to lie. Oliver's back straightened to the point of unnaturalness, his face taking on an expression Felicity wasn't sure she recognized. It was both Oliver and not-Oliver, the fluid assumption of another identity when she thought that he'd merged them all.

"Anatoly," he said, and all Felicity could do was wait.

* * *

"Oliver Queen," Anatoly said, with a laugh that Oliver watched on the monitor. He bent back from the strength of it, a full-bodied laugh that had a reassuring level of genuine gladness in it. "I am surprised to receive your call, my wayward friend. I have heard about your troubles with the Starling City clan."

"Misunderstandings, I'm sure," Oliver said, politely. He tuned out his friends' presences in the room, focused on the half-truth he had to sell Anatoly, against the reality that he didn't believe in the Bratva's ideals as much as the convenience their unscrupulous code of favors provided for him in the field.

"I am not so certain, my friend. I should not even be speaking to you, but I trust you understand this."

Anatoly could always be relied on to see the bigger picture. If Oliver was calling him, it meant that he had an offer he knew Anatoly couldn't refuse.

"I do. Which is why I'll be coming in person — I have an offer."

Anatoly didn't say anything for the longest minute. Oliver watched him reach into his pocket for a silver cigarette case, light one at a leisurely pace, and inhale, deeply. Smoke issued from his nose and mouth like a dragon surveying its territory below the mountain.

"Your ledger is full of debt, my friend. I am not sure such an offer will be sufficient." But he was probing, curious.

Oliver couldn't help but glance at Felicity. She nodded, once.

"I'm sure the Bratva has debts needing collection," he said, keeping his voice deceptively casual. "High-value assets, ones that can withstand your strong-arming. Certain funds of substantial amounts that you'd rather the FSB not get their hands on, because then you'd lose a sizable cut of it."

Anatoly's brow had his attention now. "The FSB looks most closely at money. How you propose to cheat them — I do not believe such a thing exists. Just what do you suggest, my friend?"

"I have a way to get you that money."

Anatoly laughed, again, but it was cautious. As if he was intrigued enough to consider Oliver's offer as sane, even though by all counts it should have been impossible. The FSB was the one entity even the Bratva had to respect.

"You ran a grave risk coming to Moscow, but I do not forget a debt. If this — offer — turns out to be false, you risk your life coming back to the Brotherhood. That is the one warning I am allowed to give you." Anatoly took another long drag of his cigarette, and blew it slowly into the wind. "Do we understand each other? They are braying for your blood, my friend. A Captain who has flouted the code. If you show your face, and your offer turns out to be a fiction — even I cannot protect you."

Oliver nodded. "I understand."

"Then I will see you in an hour, my friend." Anatoly tossed his cigarette from the roof. "If you can do this, I look forward to seeing one of my Captains once more."

"Anatoly?" said Oliver, watching him turn on the monitors. "You really should have put that out before throwing it into the street."

His friend's laugh frayed over the line, and Anatoly shook his head like he was resigned to accepting the impossible when it came to Oliver Queen.

When Oliver hung up, Felicity and Diggle were watching him, each with varying degrees of surprise.

"So we've established that even Knyazev thinks you're crazy," Felicity said, lightly. "Welcome to the club."

Her words drew a smile from him — as little as he was expecting one — and he gripped her hand, unsure whether it was reassurance for her, or himself. Diggle leaned against the edge of the desk, watching him with a steady gaze. "Now what?"

Their eyes met, and Oliver was reminded of the last time they'd been in Moscow. "We get a drink," he answered, and it was Diggle's turn to smile.

* * *

Oliver caught the gun that Diggle tossed him without comment, wielding it with the kind of ease that made her wonder at his usual choice of weapon. Sitting at the desk, Felicity watched them both with concern, getting antsier by the minute because she wasn't coming with them. Because she had work. Real-life, grown-up, and _legal_ work.

In hindsight, she and Oliver really shouldn't have spent that much time in bed.

Felicity started at the sound of her phone. She picked it up and made a small sound of annoyance. Ray had not only squeezed in a workout and a conference call, he was waiting downstairs in the lobby for her. " _Aaaand_ regular life calls," she said, snapping the computer shut and groping under the desk for the high-heeled shoes she'd kicked out of the way.

Felicity squeezed Diggle's arm. "Wrap up warm, it's cold out there," she said, and tugged gently on the lapels of his coat. Irrelevant and inadequate warnings were standard etiquette before a suicidally dangerous mission.

Diggle gave her a hug. "I'll keep an eye on him," he said, in an undertone. Accurate, as always.

Felicity kissed him on the cheek and reached for her bag. As always, Oliver was last for the goodbyes. They were both by the door, and he watched as she buttoned her coat. Fumbled with it, more like.

"Wish I was coming with you," she said, struggling with the buttons. "Gloves — and small holes — do not _mix_ well." She winced. "That — sounded dirtier than I meant it to be."

Felicity gave up and let him help her. Oliver shook his head as he did up the last few buttons on her coat, his lips pressed together from hidden amusement. "You're the Vice-President of Palmer Technologies," he said, his hands coming to rest around her waist. "Work comes first."

She worked her ponytail out of her coat collar. " _You_ did it back in QC," she said.

Even Oliver looked skeptical.

"Okay, fine," she said. "I know you had an _indispensable_ executive assistant to cover for you, but you made being late look so easy."

"In the words of someone I once knew," Oliver said, pulling her close, "I was a lazy idiot."

Felicity smiled and patted his cheek. "You're _my_ lazy idiot," she said, affectionately. "And now you've been upgraded to reckless. So promise me you'll be careful?"

Oliver nodded, and for a moment — a long, moment — they didn't say anything. In the silence, they were only aware of how close they were, their bodies pressed together — his hands were clasped behind her back, resting where they always did, in the dip and curve of her spine. Her eyes were closed, her lips just inches away from the pulse in his throat. Just one moment, one moment before real life swept in and pulled them apart again.

Felicity didn't regret spending the morning in bed, not anymore. But she was glad that Oliver was the one to initiate the kiss — because her kiss would have been needlessly distracting, filled with _want_ instead of _have_. His kiss — the one they both needed — was lighter than the brush of a feather.

"I'll see you later," he murmured, his breath warm against her forehead.

She nodded, and slipped away. "See you later."

* * *

The bar looked like Verdant did during the day, innocuously unremarkable. And not unlike Verdant, the bar was just a front for the not-so-strictly legal activities that went on below-ground. In this case, it was a camouflage for the Bratva headquarters. At least, it was how Oliver remembered it.

"Just like old times," said Diggle.

The two of them, out in the field, Felicity just a phone call away.

Oliver gave him a long, measured glance. " _You_ don't have to do this, John. I can handle it on my own."

Diggle shook his head, a faint smile flickering across his face, as if he'd decided something against his better judgment. "You know I'm not gonna let you go at it alone."

In the beginning, Oliver had always thought of bravery as Diggle's defining quality. Few people would have kept his secret the way Diggle had, the truth of who really lurked beneath the hood of the vigilante, the dark hand of justice casting its shadow across Starling City. That took bravery, and a good heart — a loyal heart. But Oliver had always assumed being brave meant that loyalty came easily, because having nothing to fear made it easy to link fortunes with an uncertain piece on the chessboard.

He was wrong.

With Diggle, loyalty was a thing of its own — the gun in his hand, his heart on his sleeve — and Oliver trusted it as much as he trusted Felicity with his soul.

"Then let's go," he said, finally. "Felicity, can you hear us?"

Felicity realized that VPs and polite guests weren't supposed to chew pens, but to hell with that, her friends were about to walk into a bar outnumbered twenty to one by members of the Russian mob.

And she was trying to work out how to phrase a highly awkward request, all while waiting for their tour of the Moscow office to start.

"Ray?" she said, tapping the pen against her hand. "You know how we have a list of favors we owe each other? You know, for all those times when emergencies of the Don't-Ask-Or-I-Have-To-Kill-You variety come up and I-slash-you have to make a quick unexcused absence, leaving me-slash-you to cover for you-slash-me?"

That sentence sounded a lot better in her head.

Ray looked up from his computer, frowning in confusion. "Interesting syntax — and that's the first I've heard of it."

"Oh good, because we need to start one. Now."

He pushed his chair back and stood up, hands in his pockets. Instead of annoyance, his expression was all concern. "What's going on?" he asked.

Felicity shook her head, vehemently. "Can't say. But I need to make a call — right now — and it means that I might be late for the office tour."

They were veering dangerously close to _pretty-please_ territory. Felicity pressed her hands together in a silent plea. She knew it was asking a lot, but a part of her also knew that Ray was the only one outside the team who would understand.

And he did.

"Okay," Ray answered, reaching for his suit jacket. "I'll cover for you — and I won't ask. Because, let's just face it, I'm not stupid, and I technically still owe you for barging in last night."

"Thank you, thank you —" Felicity walked him all the way to the door. "The next emergency is on me. Seriously. Diarrhea — stomach cramps — bad back — I will make _all_ of the excuses."

Ray grimaced in the middle of buttoning his jacket. "Maybe something that doesn't make me sound like I'm eighty," he suggested.

"You got it." She'd just pull out the disused trove of Oliver-excuses. Hangovers, nightclubs, and semi-fictional supermodels.

Felicity was about to close the door when Ray stuck his head back inside. "But we're still on for dinner?"

"Absolutely," she promised.

"Hope that bath last night was a good one," he said, before the door clicked shut behind him.

Thank God the walls in the Moscow office weren't glass, because Felicity practically sprinted over to the computer, one-handedly logging into an untraceable network and configuring her earpiece with the other.

"Guys? I'm in. Go show Knyazev you mean business," she said, already starting to type.

* * *

Oliver didn't recall there being as many people in the room the last time he'd met Anatoly. They were surrounded by unfriendly, appraising eyes, and Anatoly wasn't even in the room yet. He looked to his side. Diggle appeared deceptively relaxed, leaning back in his chair, and only Oliver could tell from the way his hands curled on the armrests that Diggle was tense and ready to fight back at a moment's notice.

"Someone's trying to make a statement," Diggle remarked, making a similar mental comparison with regards to the state of the room.

"We'll be fine," Oliver answered, partly for Diggle, partly for Felicity, who was — as always — on the other end of the line.

The door at their backs banged open, ushering with it the acrid smell of cigarette smoke, gunmetal, and cheap drinks. Oliver didn't turn in his chair, because he already knew who it was.

"Oliver Queen," Anatoly said, in his ringing voice. There was no laughter in it, none of the jovial humor Oliver knew. But he understood. Anatoly was a leader, and they all had to put on a show. "Eager for death, as always."

Oliver eschewed the formal greeting. "I have what I promised, Anatoly."

"Oh?" Anatoly took his seat, flanked by a pair of very large bodyguards, assault rifles resting prominently on their forearms. He opened his arms. "Where is it?"

Oliver carefully set his phone on Anatoly's desk. He was very careful not to say her name, not here.

"You're on," he said, knowing that she was listening.

Felicity's voice crackled on speaker. "Mr. Knyazev," she said, almost pleasantly. "How's your Wi-Fi signal?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have that evil storytelling feeling again (*rubs hands together*)  
> THOSE 3x17 PHOTOS. FELICITY'S RED DRESS AND EVERYONE LOOKS SO DAMN PERFECT (oh, hello, Ray, didn't see you there, WAIT-WHY ARE YOU OFFICIATING THE WEDDING? DID YOU CRASH YOUR SUIT INTO THE PRIEST?) Urgh. I want. All the episodes. But I also don't want them. Because they will hurt.
> 
> This is completely narcissistic and weird, but seeing the wedding photos makes me really happy because everyone looks like they do in the epilogue of "You're His Hope" (Except Ray wasn't there, but no complaints).
> 
> Anyways, if you want to, check out the AU-ish rom-com fake movie trailer for Arrow (which I made because I could, and it was fun). FF doesn't let me post links but it's under "What If (Arrow: International Trailer)" on Youtube, or on my Tumblr ChronicOlicity. Cheers! Just remember that 3x16 is one step closer to that Raylicity rough patch. (YAAAAS)


	11. A Storm is Coming

Anatoly raised his eyebrows. "American?" he said, directing his surprise at Oliver.

"I'd show you my passport," Felicity answered, "but I've been told not to do that with the Russian mob. Specifically."

Diggle chuckled, while Oliver hid a smile at her flippancy. "Anatoly, we need the names," he said, and added, for politeness' sake, "please."

The spectators murmured, but Anatoly silenced them with a raised hand. "Just a name?" he said, leaning forward in his chair. "Russia is a big country, with many names."

Oliver could imagine Felicity rolling her eyes. "I'd ask for birthdays and social security numbers, but that would just be an insult to my intelligence. Just the names, please. And maybe a ballpark figure you want out of their bank account."

From the way the air sharpened, Oliver could tell that Felicity had everyone's attention. Anatoly clasped his hands together, looking pleasantly intrigued. "Viktor Khudyakov," he said. "8 million rubles."

Two seconds later, she said: "Done."

* * *

Felicity had a reason to be proud of herself. Not many MIT graduates turned out to be vigilante-aiding hackers, and highly capable of funneling money out of secret Cayman-Island bank accounts to boot.

Of course there were no monitors. Secret criminal dens rarely came with high-tech equipment, and she sensed the brotherhood of Russian criminals did things old school, which was why they came prepared.

"Thanks, Dig," she said, after he'd planted the monitor in front of Anatoly and his goons, so they could all see what she was looking at. "Now, Mr. Knyazev, you're currently looking at one Viktor Khudyakov's — _highly_ secret — Cayman Island savings account. His picture's on the right, so make sure we're not Robin-Hood-ing the wrong guy. I believe the amount was 8 million rubles? Mr. Khudyakov's a smart man — life choices aside — so he made sure his savings were in — huh — Chinese Yuan. Interesting choice. You might lose a little on the exchange, but I'm sure some money feels better than no money at all. Shall I make the transfer?"

"Impossible…" She could sense the frankly, quite flattering, disbelief on the other end of the line, and leaned back in her chair, tapping her fingers on the armrests. This must have been what super-villainy felt like. Supple leather office chairs with orthopedic back support. "If you do not mind me asking," Knyazev said, with surprising politeness. "How?"

Felicity saw no reason to be modest. "Well, I'm currently hacked into the FSB's _extensive_ and privacy-violating databases, more specifically, the database they reserve exclusively for you, the Bratva, and their known associates. Mr. Khudyakov — his current location of residence aside — still exists on the database. The rest, as we Americans like to say, is cake."

Knyazev started to laugh, a booming sound that startled her more than she would happily admit. "My third favorite American!" he bellowed.

Oh lovely. She'd made it on the top ten list of a Russian mob leader.

Knyazev was very polite. He only asked for three more names. Granted, those names collectively owed him and the Bratva an _obscene_ amount of money, but she was an innate optimist.

Felicity glanced at her phone when it buzzed, for about the fifth time. Ray had sent a succession of emoji-filled messages (he was definitely _not_ stingy about his daily text allowance), the basic gist of which was — _IS IT SAFE TO COME BACK IN YET?_

"Guys," she said, "I have to go. Can you take it from here?"

* * *

The room was red. It gilded the dark surface of Anatoly's ornate Chinese desk with a pulsing warmth, made the small brass sculpture of a bird of prey glow, viciously alive. Anatoly shut the door with a faint sigh. The room was mostly quiet now, vibrating faintly with the thudding club music outside.

"Forgive the show, my friend," he said, heavily. "There are many — unhappy — with the way you have interpreted our code."

"I apologize for causing you any inconvenience," Oliver answered, carefully, because he wasn't sorry for going against the code, not in principle.

Anatoly waved his hand. "Inconvenience was saving my life," he said. "This — this is pageantry."

Oliver caught Diggle's raised eyebrow when Anatoly came back into view, carrying three glasses and a tall bottle.

"Now," he said, with an air of a day's work well done, "we drink."

"I'd say none for me," Diggle muttered, "but we all know how that turns out."

Anatoly chuckled as Oliver silently handed Diggle a glass, before reaching for his own. The vodka was pungently strong, bringing with it memories of his time in the brotherhood, a time he would rather have forgotten.

But, old habits.

Oliver's old friend raised his glass. " _Prochnost,_ " he said.

Diggle toasted Oliver and drank, swallowing in one gulp. Oliver's throat burned from the strength of it, searing all the way down to his stomach. The drink made Anatoly talkative, but it made Oliver careful, and he watched his friend now, across the length of a desk.

Anatoly leaned back in his chair, fixing them both with a benevolent gaze. Not having to put on a show for the brotherhood had taken the weight off his shoulders. "I am surprised you set foot in Russia again, Mr. Diggle," he said, swirling the drink in his glass. "Usually the _koshmar_ is enough for one lifetime."

"I'm not gonna lie — that wasn't my best vacation." Diggle's voice was husky from the vodka. His head lifted, and he met Anatoly's inquisitive stare without wavering. "But we need answers."

Anatoly nodded, slowly. "Strength. A good quality in a comrade." Oliver was accustomed to Anatoly's tangents, but Diggle wasn't. Catching Diggle's eye, he leaned back in his chair with a slight shake of his head. The sooner Anatoly finished on his own, the sooner they would have their answers. "Your friend — the one on the phone — is very clever," Anatoly continued. "In the end, money is all the Bratva wants. A shame that we did not have a chance to meet."

Oliver intercepted the underlying question, and decided to respond — sparingly.

"You have," Oliver said, setting his glass carefully on the desk. "She was with me the last time I was in Moscow."

Recognition dawned in Anatoly's eyes, and he laughed, filling their glasses again. "Clever, very clever. She reminds me of my granddaughter. I call her _myshka_ — little mouse. Deceptively small, but clever creatures — very clever." He lifted his glass in a toast to Felicity, which Oliver accepted. "She saved your life today."

Oliver drained his glass. "I know."

Anatoly smiled indulgently at Oliver's brusqueness, as if it was amusing to him. "Now," he said, "How can I help you, Oliver?"

Oliver reached into his pocket and laid the bullet carefully in the middle of the desk.

"This almost ended up killing a man in Starling City. Ray Palmer. I want to know why."

Anatoly's brow furrowed. He used the tip of his finger to nudge the bullet into a slow spin, studying it in silence. Oliver knew that Anatoly had a deceptively intricate memory for details, and he would recognize the bullet in seconds — if it was theirs.

"It is our bullet," he agreed. "But not our gun."

Diggle made a skeptical noise under his breath. "The Bratva specialize in strong-arming, drugs, weapons, and killing on contract — even I know that."

Anatoly had been in the middle of lighting a cigarette and paused to incline his head at Diggle's words, even though Oliver saw the hawk-like flash that meant he had taken some offense.

"It was used to target innocents in Starling City, Anatoly," Oliver said, evenly. "I didn't believe it either — the Bratva I remember doesn't assassinate in broad daylight."

"You make us sound more — noble — than we are." Anatoly released a breath of smoke, scratching the corner of his eyebrow with his thumb with a deep sigh. "We deal with money. Favors. A dead man is of no use to us, so when possible, we try to negotiate. This — this was not the Bratva."

As if he sensed Oliver and Diggle were about to object, he lifted a hand and silenced them. "Mr. Palmer is in Moscow, correct? My sources told me the moment he landed. We keep careful watch on individuals like him — rich men. One never knows where there might be an — an opportunity to do business."

"Would he?" Oliver asked, more curious than he should have been.

Anatoly's expression was answer enough. "There are some types the darkness will not touch. Mr. Palmer — disappointing, yes — is one of those men." He smiled, suddenly cat-like. "Though I keep careful watch, just in case."

There was a pause, as Anatoly let the words sink in.

"Unfortunately, it means that if we wanted Mr. Palmer dead, we would have killed him his first night in Russia. He still lives, and we do not want him dead. That — I can assure you."

Oliver and Diggle exchanged glances, and it was Diggle that spoke. "But someone in Starling City does," he said, with a kind of weariness that mirrored Oliver's. The well-practiced fatigue of a man facing yet another dead end.

"There is a traitor in our midst." Anatoly's eyes grew hard, as hard as the sharp-edged brass sculpture sitting on his desk, and Oliver was reminded of the predatory leader his friend pretended not to be. That he was too shrewd to have missed the treachery going on within his own organization.

"You already knew," Oliver said, flatly. "You already knew something was wrong."

Anatoly tilted his head in silent acknowledgment. "For a few weeks now."

"Why didn't you do anything?" Diggle demanded, with a suppressed fury Oliver silently shared.

"Perhaps I needed a friend's assistance in removing them," said Anatoly, and raised his glass to Oliver. "You have shown the Starling City clan to be weak, both in leadership and in practice. For that, I thank you, and I ask for you not to worry. The Starling City clan needs a new leader — a new captain."

Oliver stiffened, and Anatoly wheezed in laughter. "Not you, my friend. You have served your time with us — it is enough." He waved his hand, displacing the haze of smoke around him. "I will set up a meeting for you, the new captain should know a friendly face."

"Anatoly." Oliver watched him carefully, very carefully. "If the Bratva is killing innocent people — why?"

"If the victims were anyone else — people with blood on their hands — people who have traded with us — I would have guessed retaliation, a coup of some kind. But, truly, I do not know." Anatoly exhaled, slowly. "For weeks, I have been hearing rumors of the Starling City clan — that they have chosen to undertake contracts of their own, contracts that they keep very secret. Unfortunately, it is guesswork. A faint whisper in a talking room. I am sorry you had to come all this way for nothing."

Diggle rose from his chair. "I'm sorrier about the people lying in morgues with bullets in their skulls," he said, and walked away.

Oliver was startled, even though it was something Diggle would have said, utterly without malice, just a flat statement of the unpleasant truth. But he would never have said it in front of a semi-ally like Anatoly.

"John —" Oliver turned, but Diggle had already left the room.

The door shut behind him with a snap, a sound that rang of finality. Oliver let him go. He couldn't fault Diggle for the way he'd reacted to Anatoly's flippancy when it came to the awareness that innocents had been killed in Starling City. The Bratva was about making a point. Anatoly had been strategizing, waiting for the opportune time to remove the problem from the Starling clan. Being overpowered by an outsider was reason enough for a change in leadership. Oliver understood, more than he wanted to admit, both to himself and Anatoly.

Oliver faced Anatoly again, his fingertips braced against the desk as if for support. The atmosphere had changed. Without Diggle — without John, he was oddly bereft, without his external force of reason.

Anatoly calmly filled his glass again, just his glass. "Your friend…" he began, "this is personal to him."

Oliver shook his head.

Diggle didn't know any of the dead — at least, not as far as he'd been told. But even that wasn't strictly true. It _could_ be personal, and Oliver knew why. Anonymous shootings by a phantom assassin, no earthly reason why the victims should have died, pursuing the truth to a dead end…it was his brother all over again.

Diggle rarely got frustrated, but this time he had — because it _was_ personal, deeply so. An unsolved mystery that ate away at him still.

"One more drink," Anatoly said, as if he sensed the words Oliver had been about to articulate. That it was time — past time — for him to go.

Oliver sat down again, and reached for the refilled glass. The surface quivered in his hand, even though his grip was perfectly steady. It shuddered from an unseen current, a silent gust.

"Why did you return?"

Oliver lifted his head, because Anatoly wasn't speaking in English anymore. Russian was a language they both spoke, a language Anatoly used to express himself, better than he ever could in English.

"Return?" Oliver repeated.

"You could have disappeared — many times. A man like you — clever, resourceful, with a talent for masks and hidden truths — there must have been many opportunities to disappear. We both know that what you experienced in those five years was enough for a lifetime of anonymity."

Oliver said nothing, allowing Anatoly to ponder.

"There is a reason you still remain in Starling City, yes? I read about the wars and the _terrorist_ _attacks_ , and I must say that it baffles me why you still return — time and time again, back to your beleaguered city."

"It's home," Oliver said, simply. "You returned to Moscow after your time on the _Amazo,_ and I returned home after my time on the island. Something always calls you home."

Anatoly observed him, very intently.

"I have to warn you of something, Oliver," he said, and he wasn't smiling. Not anymore. "Starling City has seen too much war, too much death. A city like that may be rising out of the ashes, but there is something about it that draws the darkness in. I know you, Oliver, I know how you get drawn into these — these intrigues. But I know not what you are trying to do, what end you are pursuing. You fight like one of the Bratva, but you do not think like one. I have always understood this about you, my friend, and I feel I have a duty to warn you — there is a storm coming. It comes to engulf your city again, and it would be prudent to leave. You've fought enough of the darkness for one lifetime, my friend."

"I always weather the storm, Anatoly," Oliver said, with a faint smile. "You know me."

Anatoly nodded, his smile mirroring Oliver's. "I do, and I know you will not listen, but do as your heart tells you. So I will leave you with this…a word of advice. When the darkness comes, will you let it tarnish your legacy? Or will you decide that it is something…that there is something…you truly _cannot_ lose?" Anatoly rested his hand on Oliver's shoulder, close to the Bratva tattoo above his heart, and shook him, gently.

"Sometimes, my friend, that is enough to save your life. To make you remember what is truly important. That sometimes, the war is not worth fighting."

Oliver knew. The names of the many people he couldn't stand to lose. The war he'd always fight — for them. The darkness he sensed was coming, even though the threat had yet to surface. "I know what's important," he said, simply. "I fight for them. I always have."

"Yes," said Anatoly, and Oliver knew that he was remembering their time together in the Brotherhood. "But who will fight for _you_?"

The question hung unanswered in the air, and Oliver was the first to move. He stretched out his hand. "Anatoly," he said, with a nod. "Always a pleasure."

Anatoly gripped his hand, with a smile that was almost sad, like he'd done his best to warn him. "Goodbye, my friend, and take care. A storm is coming."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arrow's back this week, which means our collective angst/stress levels are going to be aggressively upped. I'm only hanging in there because apparently 3x20 has a great Olicity moment in a jet? (My mind is running rampant here)
> 
> STEPHEN AMELL READS FANFICTION?! WHAT. WHAT. Eh, well, there's a 0.00000000001% chance he'll come across this anyway. *shrug* It's still nice to think about it, though. I think I've put my decent foot forward, as far as You're His Hope and Legacies (so far) are concerned, but you guys are the judge of that :)


	12. Queen in Her Own Right

Oliver found Diggle outside the club. His back was turned, hands in his coat pockets, head tilted back, breathing mist into the frigid air. If Diggle noticed him, he gave no sign of it. Oliver stood back and let him have his space — just for a little longer. They faced a busy street and a busier road, their breathing drowned out by the noises of rush-hour commute and the murky daylight of an ending day.

"What did Anatoly say?" Diggle asked, without turning.

Oliver took a deep breath, and felt the cold air sting in his throat. "He warned me…that a darkness is coming. Back to Starling City."

Diggle didn't say anything.

"He said…that maybe it wasn't worth fighting. That we've faced enough darkness for one lifetime."

"Cheerful," Diggle said, in a curiously flat voice. "Will you listen?"

Oliver braced his hand against the rough brick wall, feeling it scrape against his fingertips. "You know I can't, John."

There was a silence, punctuated by the rush of a passing car.

"Are you all right?" Oliver asked, carefully.

Diggle sighed. "Yeah. I guess I'm just not used to the way the Brotherhood operates."

"Neither am I," Oliver said. "That's why I had a debt to clear."

Diggle still didn't turn. "Yeah, Felicity saved your ass — again." Again, without his usual good-natured humor.

"And I've disappointed you," Oliver observed. "John, I didn't know that Anatoly already had plans to replace the Starling City captain. I didn't know he wouldn't have the answers."

"Or that he wouldn't care enough to pursue them." Diggle shook his head with frustration. "Or that our lead — if we can even call it that — would bring us to something more than a dead end. Dammit Oliver, I let myself hope —" Diggle jerked his head and fell silent.

"Hope?" Oliver frowned. "John, what's going on? Is this about Andy?"

Diggle turned, abruptly, staring Oliver full in the face. Oliver realized — with a pang — that he'd guessed right. "John…" he said. "I'm sorry."

Again, he shook his head. "I know it was Deadshot, and Deadshot wasn't hired by the Bratva. But I made a promise to myself recently that I'd find out who killed Andy, and the way things turned out — they started to look familiar." Diggle took a deep, shuddering breath. "Whoever hires the Russian mob to do their dirty work for them — maybe they're the same kinds of people who hire assassins like Floyd Lawton to kill an innocent man."

"John —" Oliver was at a loss. "You could have told me from the start."

Diggle cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders, a military man through and through. "You had enough on your plate," he said, quietly. "Besides, this was something I had to do on my own."

"But you shouldn't have to," Oliver said, just as quietly.

They stared at each other, two friends who understood what it meant to be consumed by the past, to be led on a search with no answers — or the answers they didn't want to hear.

"I'll meet with the new captain," Oliver promised. "I'll find out what he knows. Even if we don't — we'll keep looking, John. I promise. I should have realized that you had your own crusade, and I'm sorry. Now I'm here to help, and I will."

Diggle didn't say anything at first, until he smiled, faintly. He silently held out his hand, and Oliver shook it. There was still a lot to be said, but there was time for that.

"I promise," he repeated.

* * *

Felicity hadn't heard from the guys since she went to work. It took all of her self-control and very sparse acting skills not to make Ray suspect it was anything but a stress-free work trip. By the time she got back to the 27th floor, she was fully ready to break out the rescue squad — two of her best people-locating, privacy-violating satellites and one hell of a lot of red wine.

That was before she got inside her room and saw the two of them sitting on the couch. Drinking. Alcohol.

"When you hang up to go question the Russian mob," she said, dropping her bag with an angry thud, "you _answer_ your phones!"

Diggle held up his phone. "Mine went dead."

"No cell service on the Metro," Oliver said, irritatingly calm. He had his quiet voice on, the end-of-the-day-tired voice, like he was about to break some bad news.

Or maybe he'd just seen her start to take off her shoes, and he knew what a bloodbath that could be when she was irritated. Felicity sagged against the arm of the couch, yanking off her heels.

"Well? How was it?" she said, looking from one to the other, visually checking for bruises, scrapes — general signs that they'd been beaten up by the Russian mob.

Diggle and Oliver exchanged glances.

"Not a complete waste," Diggle answered, with a tired smile.

Felicity frowned. "Explain that sentence," she said, feeling like she'd missed the memo or something.

"Anatoly doesn't know who targeted Palmer," said Oliver. "Because the Starling City Bratva wasn't acting on his orders."

"So you're saying the Russian mob went rogue?" Felicity repeated. "Can you even _do_ that?"

"There's going to be a change in leadership," said Diggle, with another loaded glance at Oliver, "and then…we'll take the investigation from there."

Felicity was a little taken aback. They'd just hit a dead end, but the two of them were being inordinately calm about it. Granted, Diggle was an emotional rock, but she'd expected some fireworks from Oliver at least, after his nightmare and all.

"So…we're all okay?" she said, very warily. "We're not — blowing up?"

Oliver nodded. "We're okay."

Felicity looked up when Diggle stood. The ice rattled in his glass when he drained it in one go. "I told Oliver," he said, resting a hand on her shoulder. "About Andy."

Felicity paused in surprise, looking from one to the other, just realizing what the looks had been about. "Good," she said, with a small smile. "So we're all in this together."

Diggle stopped to give Felicity a hug. "Thank you," he said, softly. He didn't need to specify the _what_.

Felicity squeezed his arm, and watched as he left the room. Then she released her breath, still wondering what in the name of _heck_ had gone on while she'd been at work.

"Are you sure?" she said, turning to Oliver. "About the _okay_?"

Oliver reached across to put his empty glass on the coffee table. "Now that the Bratva know they're being played by someone, they'll be careful not to let something like a rogue assassination attempt happen again," he said, calmly. "And thanks to you, I'm no longer in debt as far as the Bratva's concerned. So it's not a complete waste."

"I never thought you'd end up being the optimist," Felicity muttered, perched on the edge of the couch, her elbows on her knees. "And I didn't tell you about Dig — what he was doing with Andy's murder — because he wanted to keep it to himself."

Oliver inclined his head. "I understand. If I hadn't been fixating on threats, I might have realized how similar the deaths were — what they meant to him."

"Tunnel vision sucks, doesn't it?" Felicity said, only half-joking, and relaxed when Oliver cracked a smile. "So what did Anatoly really say?"

Oliver glanced up at her. "He warned me," he said, simply. "Even he knows something bad is about to hit Starling City, and he warned me to consider…whether it's worth the fight. He told me to think about what I wanted to leave behind — a legacy."

Felicity leaned forward. "And what legacy is that?" she asked, very still.

There was something thoughtful about Oliver's expression, not quite sad, not really. But there was a stillness about it, a kind of clarity. "I don't know if we get to choose the legacies we leave behind. But I _do_ know two things. The first, is that I'm never going to be done fighting for my city, and the second, is that Starling is not the same — that it hasn't been the same for a while. There are people — not just us — willing to stand up and fight for it, to save it. And it's going to be enough," he said, slowly. "I'm not alone — not in this."

Felicity reached for Oliver's hand, silently lacing her fingers with his. "You're not," she said. "About time you realized that."

Oliver smiled, more in surprise than anything else. After all this time, he was still surprised by her — by the things she said. Felicity let herself be pulled closer, until she was practically sitting on top of him, and they were looking into each other's eyes.

"What time's your dinner?" he asked, barely above a whisper. He didn't have to say it any louder.

Felicity pretended to glance at the clock. "I have time," she answered, smiling when Oliver reached up and freed her hair from the ponytail. Felicity shook her hair loose, feeling a little self-conscious, but she quickly forgot all that when she saw the way Oliver smiled at her, as if he could have looked at her forever.

"Thank you for coming with me," he murmured. "To Moscow."

* * *

"This might be a long shot," Felicity said, as she attempted to untangle a pair of hangers, "but do you know any dinner table jokes?"

Oliver was sitting on the bed with his company laptop, stoic as ever. "Not unless they involve homicides and curare poisoning," he answered, dryly.

"I'll take that as an aggressive _no_." Her dress slid free of the hanger and landed in a defiant heap on the floor. "Frack."

Bending over while wearing nothing but a towel was harder than it looked, and Felicity accomplished something of an ungainly wobble on her way back up, muttering expletives to herself as she looped the dress over her arm.

"You didn't see that," she said, wriggling into the dress.

Oliver made a contradicting noise under his breath, and ducked smoothly when she threw the discarded towel in his direction.

Felicity sucked in her breath out of habit when she closed the zipper, one of the rare times she hadn't forgotten. There was a tiny down feather clinging to the waist, a wisp of white against pure red. She flicked it off before reaching for the hairbrush. Her loose hair was a complete masterpiece of inappropriate bedroom activity, a fact of nature that needed to be swiftly rectified.

A work dinner with people twice her age was the next-to-last place she wanted to be, but it seemed like a decent price to pay for a peaceful-ish trip to Russia, a trip that mended some fences, patched up _some_ loose ends…all while leaving a spiderweb of unsolved mysteries in the trail back to Starling.

Baby steps, baby steps.

There were times when she felt like a kid playing at dress-up, wearing clothes the old her could never have afforded, making faces at her reflection in the mirror. Felicity piled her hair on top of her head, poking pins into the general infrastructure to keep it twisted up — somewhat classily, at least.

Oliver laughed, completely without warning. Felicity spun around, a hairpin pinging off against the floor. "What — what happened?" she demanded.

He turned his computer around, grinning. "Your mom just emailed…reminding me that your birthday's coming up."

Felicity's eyes rolled so far back that she might have glimpsed her brain. Donna Smoak and the joys of technology. Her mother could barely figure out text messaging, but Oliver's email address — _that_ , she could figure out.

At comparable levels of annoying was how amused Oliver was by her mom.

"That's _not_ funny," she said, turning back to the mirror to grapple with her hair. "If she's staying over, it means that you're sleeping on the couch. Or that we pretend that you don't sleep over, period. Neither of which are particularly fun options."

"We could stay at my place." Oliver was already typing out a reply. "The three of us."

Felicity snorted, trying not to imagine the mess…and the awkwardness. She loved her mom, but having her over was like inviting a mirror-image of herself to dinner. What she thought were cute quirks actually became pretty embarrassing in the cold light of day.

"Someone's eager to suck up to the in-laws," she said, shooting him a look of mock-severity in the mirror. "Besides, my mom already loves you, so that's one thing you don't have to worry about. Did she send you a gift idea list? Throw out _anything_ that involves home ec. One time she gave me a jar of homemade bath bombs — long story short — I had to go to the hospital for an injection. Hives, _everywhere_ —"

Felicity didn't realize Oliver was behind her until he reached around to lay something on the table.

"What's that?" she asked, around the hairpin clamped between her teeth. "If it's some kind of hairspray — perfect timing."

Oliver wrapped his arms around her waist and planted a soft kiss on her bare shoulder blade. "A present," he said, and she looked down at it.

It was a box, square and velvet-lined. Felicity blinked at it, processing that the last time she'd seen a box like that, there'd been a diamond necklace inside of it.

Except this box was open, and empty.

"Uh, Oliver?" she said, picking up the box to check for a jeweler's mark. "Are you saying you've been robbed? Because boxes like that usually come with contents insurance — _oh —_ "

She trailed off, because there was something around her throat. Cold, and surprisingly heavy. Felicity's head jerked up, in time to catch Oliver's smile in the mirror as he finished fastening the clasp.

His fingertips brushed the back of her neck, and he said, as soft as a kiss, "there."

Felicity was vaguely aware that she was staring at her reflection…and that her mouth was hanging open. Because there were no words — no words to express her surprise that Oliver had decided to give her… _this_.

It was a beautiful gold chain set with a series of emeralds — the lush, mysterious green of a forest in a fairytale — daintily encircled by smaller diamonds that glittered like the stars. Somehow both classically simple and breathtakingly ornate, and nothing — _nothing_ like she'd ever worn before.

"Oh my God," she said, very articulately.

"Do you like it?" he asked, and his breath tickled the loose wisps of hair at the back of her neck.

"Oliver…this deserves to have a new word created for it." Felicity glanced around, abruptly serious. She didn't want him spending — God only knew how much — on jewelry, just for her. "Did you buy this?"

He shook his head, resting his chin on her shoulder. "It belonged to my mother, an heirloom from the Dearden side of the family. I thought you should have it." Their eyes met in the mirror — two very different blues — his perfectly steady, hers wide with surprise. "It suits you," he murmured.

Felicity was still at a loss for words. It certainly _looked_ like something Moira Queen would have worn, if a little on the simple side. Felicity gingerly touched one of the emeralds, because she still couldn't believe something this expensive was around her neck. That she was wearing something of Moira's.

She'd met Moira Queen before, but it'd been as either Felicity the IT girl or Miss Smoak your-CEO-son's-executive-assistant. All had involved word vomits and general awkwardness, and one memorable occasion of blackmail. It was difficult — oh, who was she kidding — _impossible_ to imagine that Moira Queen, the ever-composed and polished matriarch, Oliver's mother, would have approved of Oliver giving her a priceless piece of family jewelry.

 _I see the way you look at him_ , she'd said.

Moira had seen her, so very, very clearly. Seen that Felicity was in love with her son, more in love with him than she knew — at the time. Moira hadn't underestimated what Felicity would have done for Oliver's sake, the instinctive urge to shelter and protect him from harm, as much as she possibly could.

But for all the pretense she'd seen through, she hadn't realized how little Felicity cared if Oliver was in love with her too…when the trust between them hung in the balance. That given the choice between love and lies, versus friendship and trust, she would choose trust. She hadn't cared about the possibility of him being in love with her if it meant lying to him — lying about one of the people most dear to him.

She still didn't.

Felicity turned in Oliver's arms, more nervous than ever.

"I can't wear this," she said, firmly. "It's — a Queen thing. I'm _not_ —" She struggled to find the words, and Oliver waited until she did, even though she saw in his eyes that he knew. Even more than she ever could — the woman his mother had been.

"Your mother saw right through me, Oliver," she said, with a jerk of her head. "She read me like an open book and the only thing she remembered me for was telling you the truth — about Thea. I can't wear this."

Oliver had both her hands now, a steadying pressure. "She knew you loved me," Oliver said, slowly. "And if there was _anything_ my mother valued above all else, it was the love that drives us to do the unthinkable. Felicity Smoak — after everything you've done for me — for us — you deserve to wear this necklace in your own right."

Felicity nodded, and her sight blurred with tears when Oliver bent his head to press a kiss into their clasped hands.

"I think I'm having my Cinderella moment," she said, shakily, and they both laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's going to be a party in the story (soon-ish), and I have something amazing planned for said party. It feels awesome in my head (God knows it's been distracting me from classes and very important papers), but who knows how the execution will turn out?
> 
> Urgh. I miss Moira. It sucks that I won't get to write any hilarious in-law interaction with either of Oliver's parents. They would have freaking adored Felicity.
> 
> More on the necklace in the next chapter.


	13. Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone still alive after 3x16?

Felicity had kicked the habit of glancing down at her neck every thirty seconds. It was harder to do it with a high-necked coat, so she'd gotten it down to every minute or so. She fidgeted with her coat collar and tried not to think about biting her nails as the car pulled smoothly through Moscow traffic.

She wondered if she'd made a faux pas of some kind, because of the odd expression on Oliver's face when she said that she'd never seen emeralds sparkle the way the ones in the necklace did. He'd looked like he'd been trying not to laugh, but by then she was already late to meet Ray in the lobby, and had to run.

"You're okay with French food, right?" Ray said, briefly looking up from his phone like he'd just remembered something.

"I like _food_ , period," Felicity answered. "Except maybe frog legs."

Ray made a face. "Eh, I heard those taste like chicken. You should split it with me. One leg each."

Felicity laughed as the car slowed in front of the restaurant. "That's not happening."

Ray hopped out as soon as the car came to a stop, and she whacked him across the front when she opened the door by herself.

"FYI." Ray was wincing. "You're supposed to let the guy do that."

"Sorry," said Felicity, "for being uncoordinated and a twenty-first century woman."

"Touché." Ray proffered his arm and Felicity took it with a laugh. Her shoes clacked on frozen ground as they proceeded up to the warmly-lit restaurant with an unpronounceable French name.

"BTW, everything turn out okay? With your special friend?" he asked.

Felicity's glasses fogged up when she got inside the restaurant. In a super dignified way — not. "You make him sound like he's imaginary," she said, sliding them off her nose until they cleared. "And everything went fine, B-T-W. Occupational hazards of being a vigilante's partner — your boss and everyone else have a tendency to think you're either a pathological liar or complete wacko."

"Complete wacko, probably," Ray agreed, helping her with her coat. "I've known you long enough to know that your brain isn't hardwired for complex lies."

"Compliment — I'll take that as a compliment." Felicity straightened her shoulders and blinked, realizing that Ray was staring. "What — what?"

Ray cleared his throat and shook his head, like he'd zoned out for a second. "That — is some necklace," he said. "You look ridiculous — in the best way possible. Did I just ruin a big moment? I'm sorry — I tend to do that."

Felicity was tempted to tell him that she'd already had the Cinderella moment, except a big part of the story was meant to be a secret. She tentatively touched the chain, feeling the cool stones beneath her fingertips and the gold already warm from her neck.

"Early birthday present," she said, lightly, which technically wasn't a fib. There was a whole chunk of story she'd missed out, but Ray didn't need to know it.

Ray inclined his head. "Glad to know we're paying you well enough."

"Mr. Palmer?" The maître d' was standing just behind them. "Mr. and Mrs. Marinov are already seated, if you would be so kind as to follow me."

Ray turned back to her. "Ready?" he asked.

Felicity nodded, with a smile to match his. The archway was encrusted with mirrors, and it was in the wall of mirrors that Felicity caught sight of her own reflection. It was a different kind of Felicity Smoak she was used to seeing — her hand on a tall, dark, not-so-stranger's arm, in a dress as red as a winter rose, her ordinarily-messy hair swept up and off her face, green and white jewels sparkling at her throat…

" _And Cinderella stepped out of her carriage_ ," Ray said, very close to her ear, and Felicity smiled.

* * *

Felicity found a flower petal in her lap, a snowy white apple blossom from the intricate weave of fairy lights and flower boughs crisscrossing the ceiling above their heads. She rolled it between her fingers as she listened to the conversation — the kind of business-science blast that resulted from a nerd-at-heart guy like Ray and a business behemoth like the Marinovs.

Against all expectations, it was actually going…well.

Stefan and Eva Marinov were successful targets of the Ray Palmer Charisma, and despite a recent assassination attempt, Felicity was sure that the gallium deposits were in the bag.

Except for one thing.

"I have no doubts about you, Ray," said Mr. Marinov (AKA _Stefan, call me Stefan_ ). "But I have to admit some qualms about your choice of partner. Queen Incorporated's record is premature compared to what Palmer Technologies accomplished in the same number of years."

"Queen Incorporated is a Fortune 500 company, Mr. Marinov," Ray said, patiently. "And we at Palmer Technologies believe that they have the best manufacturing capabilities close to home, which is where we want things to be."

Eva Marinov's many rings glittered when she shifted in her seat. "I think the issue here is Oliver Queen. Say what you will about Queen Incorporated, but it's difficult to sign off on a man who famously ran his family's legacy into the ground."

"Mrs. Marinov, if I may," said Felicity. She swore Ray gave her a brief look of panic, which she ignored. The Marinovs were both watching her with interest. _I have the floor_ , she thought, a little inanely.

"As a former employee of Queen Consolidated, what you said is absolutely true. Mr. Queen isn't the textbook description of a CEO. He never majored in business. He inherited QC and it didn't work out."

 _For many reasons, Oliver's tunnel vision and Isabel Rochev's mind-manipulation among them_.

Felicity laid her hand flat on the table. "But Mr. Queen started from scratch. He built Queen Incorporated from ground zero — he started again. All of us know how difficult it is to start from nothing, but he started from scorched earth. A private company dedicated to bringing employment back to a city in need of some good news, a company that's not bent on making a profit, but raising the quality of the city it owes its success to. Not many companies really think about where they come from, but Queen Incorporated is doing the unconventional — and they're succeeding at it."

Felicity exchanged glances with Ray, smiling at his silent nod before she turned back to the Marinovs. "Ray and I are partnering up with Queen Incorporated because we believe in the same things that their CEO does. Palmer Technologies breaks through the conventional, every single day, and Queen Incorporated does the same. We can work with Mr. Queen to build something truly memorable, and that's why we're here, because we need your help as well. The only question is: do you believe in us? In the strength of a vision?"

Mr. Marinov turned to his wife with a smile, and she was the one who spoke. "You know we do," she said, and raised her glass. "Congratulations. You made quite the case for Mr. Queen, Miss Smoak."

"Please." Felicity reached for her glass as well. "Call me Felicity."

Four glasses rang in a toast, a single note, a sound as high and clear as a bell.

* * *

"Thank you for the dinner," said Mr. Marinov, shaking Ray and Felicity's hands in turn. "Do call on us the next time you're in Moscow."

"Absolutely," Ray answered, smoothly. "Thank you for agreeing to our proposal. You won't be disappointed."

Mrs. Marinov winked at Felicity as she was being helped into her coat. "Oh, I know," she said, warmly. "By the way, that's a lovely necklace you're wearing."

Felicity looked down instinctively at the Dearden necklace. "Thank you," she said, still inordinately shy about Oliver's gift. "It was a birthday present."

Mrs. Marinov raised one eyebrow. "Green diamonds for your birthday," she commented. "My, my, I must teach Stefan that trick in time for mine."

Felicity blinked in momentary confusion. Mostly at the words _green_ and _diamond_ in one sentence. "They're emeralds — I think," she said, self-consciously checking her necklace, as if she could tell. There was no way. Did diamonds even _come_ in that color?

Mrs. Marinov kissed her cheek in farewell. "Felicity, sweetheart, we have a diamond mine. They're unspeakably rare, but I know green diamonds when I see them. You're a very lucky woman."

Felicity was thrown for a loop on that one. In the ensuing conversation with Mrs. Marinov, she vaguely recalled a few keywords like _auction_ and _Harry Winston_ and _Tiffany_ , which — to her at least — seemed like fancy synonyms for _Real Freaking Expensive_.

Oliver Queen.

Now she knew why he'd been trying not to laugh.

"You okay?" Ray asked. They'd just seen the Marinovs off, and were waiting for their company car to pull up.

Felicity turned her head in surprise, her breath clouding in front of her face from the cold. "Yeah — _oh_ —"

Ray — completely without warning — put his hand on her forehead, which would have made her look pretty ridiculous, except that he had a hand on his forehead too. So they both looked equally stupid.

"No fever," he muttered to himself. "But you're really red."

Felicity adjusted her glasses when he pulled his hand away. "Uh, thanks?" she said, raising a hand to her cheek. It flamed under her hand, but whether it was from the weird fever test or the wine, she didn't really know.

"Was it the snails?" Ray asked, understandingly. "I admit I put one on your plate when you weren't looking."

Felicity's laugh came out as more of a cough. She twisted a loose curl behind her ear, evading the question. The look associated with I-Just-Swallowed-Snails was a side-effect of having just realized that there was an unspeakable fortune around her neck in rare green diamonds.

"I heard what Mrs. Marinov said about the necklace," Ray said. He was looking out at the street, his hands in his coat pockets. "You know, people who buy diamond necklaces as presents for themselves aren't usually all that surprised when they turn out to be diamonds."

There was an implicit question in his words, and Felicity turned to look at him under the streetlight. Was this it? The moment she'd tell Ray about Oliver? What he was to her?

But Ray just smiled at her. "You deserve all of it, and more."

* * *

"It _has_ to be cold enough to snow," said Felicity. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold, and she reached up to push her hair out of her face, only for it to be scattered by the wind again.

The bridge they stood on was scant protection against the elements, but Oliver didn't mind in the slightest. He ducked his head and kissed her warm cheek, under the brim of her wool cap. Standing against each other like this, the back of Felicity's head came to just above his shoulder, her body small enough to be enclosed by his. His hands were on either side of her body, resting on the steel railing while she leaned on it, bent over to watch the boats passing beneath the bridge. The metal was icy cold from the winds rising off the slate-gray river, and vibrated from the motion of passing cars behind them.

Oliver pointed past Felicity, to the golden dome in the distance, to the red-and-green turrets stretching the length of a wall. "Cathedral of Christ the Savior," he said, close to her ear. "And the Kremlin."

"I _like_ this version of sight-seeing," she said, jokingly. "Tying up loose ends with the Russian mob...avoiding the tourist traps…freezing my nose off in the middle of a bridge and all."

Oliver responded by holding her tighter, wrapping his arms around her waist. "We could head back."

"No, no." Felicity's hands were on his arms now, pulling him closer still. "I like this. It's…" she sighed, a breath carried away by the wind. "Quiet. We need more _quiet_. More _conventional_."

Oliver rested his head on her shoulder and closed his eyes, if only briefly. "Not enough of that in Starling," he agreed.

Felicity leaned back against him with a soft noise of contentment, and for a long while, they stood together in peaceful silence. This was their respite, their momentary refuge until the demands of the world set in, until they had to become more than themselves to face the darkness looming over their city.

"Tell me a secret," she whispered. "I know your secrets have secrets, but tell me one of them."

Oliver thought about it for a moment, pondering the sharp-edged recollections of his time away from Starling, on the island and elsewhere, from the Amazo to ARGUS to the Bratva, until he settled on one that was none of them.

It was less of a secret, more of a dream. Half-remembered, but still vivid enough to share. Oliver felt more than ever Felicity's warmth against his body, the thrum of her pulse beneath his arms, and he smiled.

"Sometimes I see a little boy…with your hair and your words. Sometimes it's a little girl, with your eyes and the ability to do — things I'm nowhere close to understanding with a computer."

Felicity laughed, swaying in his arms. "My hair's dyed."

Oliver kissed her hair, and kissed it again. "I remember," he said. "Sometimes it feels like a dream, sometimes it feels real enough to be in front of me." His lips found the spot just below her ear. "But I know that I want it, and that I love you."

Felicity turned in his arms so that she was looking up at his face, and any qualms Oliver had about admitting his secret vanished when he saw her smile.

"We should have gone to Tahiti," she said, standing on her tiptoes so that her lips were inches from his. "Cold weather means that I can't kiss you anywhere but your face."

Oliver laughed and kissed her back, on their last day in Moscow, before everything was about to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3x16: Surprisingly painless
> 
> \- So confused about where the show is going with the "realism". When Oliver gets a sword shoved through his chest, no Lazarus Pit - cuz realism, yo. But now they're breaking out a mystical prophecy about Ra's al Ghul and supposedly we learn more about the Lazarus Pits? WTF?! I mean, yeah, he had the will to live and all, but the freezing temperatures, Tatsu, and Maseo had something to do with it too. Jeez.
> 
> \- Nyssa and Laurel friendship has the potential to be something very badass. But, I totally take issue with the fact that Nyssa ASKED to be Laurel's friend. Bitch please, other way round. Still, daddy issues are really having a field day on Arrow.
> 
> \- I am like 90% sure that Felicity is going to be hurt in some way
> 
> \- And Roy, oh darling Roy, you're either in jail and unable to tag along to Nanda Parbat or so dead. Crud.
> 
> \- Where and how did Ra's have a near-perfect replica of the Arrow suit lying around? And why can't I unsee the horror that is him pretending to be Oliver?
> 
> \- How cute were flirty Oliver and Felicity though? Until Ray had to call. Dammit. Eh, well, small consolation that he's still R. Palmer in her phone. Not Ray. HA.
> 
> \- Also, it's perfectly evident that as soon as Oliver sorts his crap out and decides to be with Felicity, Ray's gonna get dropped like an old sandwich. YAAAAAS.


	14. Office Visits

Oliver had the Starling City cemetery. Notwithstanding the visits to Sara's grave, Felicity had her own version of it. A red-brick townhouse with a green door. She adjusted the hem of her dress like she was about to see the school principal, raised her hand, and knocked.

_Tap-tap._

The promising sounds of scurrying ensued from behind the green door. As an only child, she never recognized the noise for what it was until she started visiting. It was the sound of a house alive with children.

The door opened, and Felicity looked down, because she'd expecting someone taller to be opening the door. But her face broke into a smile when she saw who it was.

"Hi, Martin," she said.

* * *

Martin's untidy hair had a piece of lint in it. Felicity brushed it off on their way up the staircase. There was a acid-green toy car against the wall, which she stealthily picked up until she could find a less dangerous place to put it down.

The house didn't seem like anything Amanda Waller would have lived in. The side tables were antiques and brimming with family photos, mostly of the children — twins and an older daughter — a rare few of Amanda with her husband, deceased. Even in the photos, the husband smiled, while Amanda only looked like she was happy if you looked hard enough.

"Where's your aunt?" she asked, looking for a free space on the side tables. She shifted a frame to make space for the car.

Martin was waiting by his bedroom door, his head tilted to the side in a perpetual state of curiosity. "Went to get groceries. Coretta's supposed to be watching us, but her boyfriend just called, so she's in her room." Martin scrunched up his nose as if he didn't think much of couple Skype sessions.

Felicity heard footsteps pattering up the staircase and turned just in time to have her waist crushed in a hug by a little girl around Martin's size.

" _Oof_ ," Felicity said, patting the top of her head. "Hello to you too." Jessie was in her cartoon-supernatural phase, so her plastic headband was decorated with ghoulish orange pumpkins, and her dress was a black and white masterpiece of cartoon ghosts going _boo_.

"I'm getting better at sneaking up on you," Jessie said, peering up at her with Martin's eyes. With similar builds and without the loss of baby fat, the two of them were more twin-like than ever.

"Oh, definitely." Felicity reached around Jessie to pull a crepe-wrapped package out of her bag. It was a little more wrinkled than it should have been due to her questionable packing skills. "Present from Moscow, all of you get one. Could you pass this on to Coretta too?"

Jessie nodded and dashed off, hugging the package to her chest. Felicity heard the brief sounds of Skype-garbled conversation from Coretta's open door before Jessie disappeared inside.

Martin had gone inside first, and was sitting on his bed when Felicity walked in. She cleared the bits and parts of a dismantled laptop from the desk chair and sat down too. Martin's room looked a lot like her childhood bedroom, manifestations of curiosity taking up more space than she possessed, the part-intuitive, part-guessing-game process of learning everything she could about computers.

"I see you're on your way to masterminding evil," she said, poking around the jumble of frayed wires and discarded computer hardware.

"I'm trying to make a computer that survives a three-story drop." All this, he said as if it was no biggie.

Felicity immediately checked the latch on his window. Loose and frequently used. Dammit. "Have you been—? You know what, don't answer that. That's a felony, by the way. Take it from someone who may or may not break them on a semi-regular basis. Less fun than it looks."

Martin shot her a rare gleeful smile as he unwrapped his present. "Matryoshka doll," he said, and the folds of crepe paper rustled around the unveiled doll. The gleam in his eyes was better than any _thank you_ he could give her, as he lined the dolls up in a straight row across his bed, studying each of them in turn. "Why were you in Moscow?" he asked, studying the wood varnish. "Masterminding evil too?"

"You know I only do that on Wednesdays," Felicity said, fiddling with the window latch. She'd partly been expecting her clumsiness to break the latch for her, but her powers seemed to have shorted out for the day. She'd tip off Martin's aunt on her way out.

"Mm-hm," was Martin's skeptical answer.

Felicity sighed, resigned to being sassed by a nine-year-old. Martin's house faced a park, resplendent with the burnished orange leaves of fall and coloring the wind every time a breeze swept across the trees. She'd seen those trees in all four seasons, since she visited a few times a month, to see the children Amanda had left behind. The house they lived in was proof of Amanda Waller's substantial life insurance, and even though they didn't have a father, they had family to look after them.

It wasn't exactly a cemetery visit, but it was something in that category. Oliver said that Felicity didn't owe Amanda Waller anything. It was, in its own way, true. Felicity had never worked for her, but spending last hours together and watching someone die had a tendency to forge an unbreakable connection, especially with the ones left in death's wake. Felicity had first met Martin in Nanda Parbat, and he was nothing like Amanda's cruelty, but everything like her brilliance.

Watching Martin, she sometimes wondered if Oliver would ever come with her on one of these visits. She knew why he didn't. His memory of Amanda was different from hers — tinged with secrets and whatever she'd done to him during those five years, the manipulations and twists she'd put him through to make him an ARGUS asset. When he looked at Martin, it was an active effort not to see Amanda Waller in his features, a strain to school his instincts against the wariness that came with any mention of the previous Head of ARGUS.

One day, one day.

Amanda Waller was a ghost that Oliver would have to face, even if he had a talent for outrunning his problems.

Felicity looked around at the sudden silence from Martin's side of the room. He'd paused, in the middle of arranging the dolls on his nightstand, staring hard at the wall like it had the words he wanted to say.

"Mom's lawyers came last week," he said, very quietly. "They found a new will."

Felicity's hands clenched on her knees. "Martin…"

"She left me some stuff. Nothing much, a few photos, a computer." Martin swallowed. "But it won't open for me. I've tried everything, but it keeps saying the same thing."

Martin looked up when Felicity crouched beside his bed, looking up into his face. "Show me," she said, softly.

Martin tugged an industrial-grade plastic container from under his bed. Out came the computer, nothing out of the ordinary, except when it was opened. Felicity felt the growing whispers of a mystery drawing her in as she bent closer to inspect it.

The screen glowed bright blue. No ARGUS logo. No sign of any organization, except a sequence of block letters across the center of the display.

Felicity's mouth silently formed the word.

_ORACLE._

* * *

Felicity frowned when her desktop made a laconic beep, signaling another failure as far as her decryption program was concerned.

"Frack," she muttered, brushing her hair behind her ear as she bent over her desk.

Not to dishonor the dead or anything, but what kind of mother left a Cobalt-Level-and-Higher-Encrypted computer to her son? It was like a big fat test of approval from beyond the grave. Good thing she hated mysteries and had excessively mixed feelings about Amanda Waller, because she was going to crack that computer for Martin, one way or another.

"I am going to crack you like a hazelnut," she said, in the _firm-but-fair_ voice she associated with misbehaving children and malfunctioning tech.

There was a soft cough in the room.

Felicity's head snapped up, and she was momentarily confused by the sight of Oliver and Diggle standing in the doorway. Cue flashback confusion. They didn't all still work in the same office, did they?

"We interrupting?" Diggle asked, with a smile.

Felicity glanced involuntarily at the annoyingly still-locked computer sitting on her desk as she walked out from behind the table. "Just having a déjà vu moment. Wasn't expecting to see my two _very_ handsome boys on the twenty-seventh floor." She looked from one to the other. "What are you guys doing here?"

Oliver checked himself, as if he'd been about to kiss her on the cheek but thought the better of it. Glass-wall office environment (and Diggle's presence) meant that they (she and Oliver _they_ ) were in strictly non-touchy mode.

All three of them totally noticed.

Clearing his throat, Oliver smoothed down the front of his jacket, a tic she'd noticed recently, associated most often with a certain somebody. "Just had a meeting with Palmer," he said. "We were discussing the gallium deposits his VP successfully secured from Marinov Holdings." Oliver's unmistakably proud smile made her blush.

"No bullets breaking the windows this time," Diggle added. "I had a nice talk with your assistant Gerry…about his Irritable Bowel Syndrome. That boy really needs to learn how to filter."

Felicity covered her mouth in mock-horror, mostly just finding it very, _very_ funny. "Could happen to anybody," she said, muffled by her hand. "Seriously though, it's nice of you to drop in for a visit, but every time the three of us are together there's usually some kind of security threat or scary conversation."

Oliver glanced at the — shut — glass doors before turning back to her. "Anatoly called," he said, quietly. "I have a meeting with the new Head of the Starling City Bratva."

Felicity puffed out her cheeks. "We really need an acronym for that mouthful," she commented. "Okay — did he say who it was? I can run background checks, dig up dirt from twelve generations back if you need me to."

Oliver shook his head. "He didn't give me a name. Probably because he anticipated _this_ happening. I only have an alias — Selena."

Felicity raised her eyebrows. "Color me very, very surprised. Didn't think the Bratva's leadership policies were so progressive."

"Their mob tactics _are_ straight from the fifties," Diggle said, with an amused glance at Oliver.

"Very true," Felicity said, pointing at Diggle like they were playing trivia. "So are you going?"

Oliver made a noncommittal sound, like he and Diggle had already gone through a minor disagreement about his answer. "Diggle doesn't like the idea of me going in blind," he said, with an air of resignation, as if his friends worrying about him was a minor hassle in his pursuit of neck-risking.

Diggle folded his arms. "Damn straight."

Oliver sucked in his breath like he was about to answer back, so naturally, Felicity interrupted him.

"I could help with that," she said, cutting him off. "This — Selena — hasn't made contact, yet, right? I'll whip up a little tracer, bug your phone, follow the merry trail back to its source, see what we find. Sound good?"

Oliver shared an amused glance with Diggle before he handed his phone over to Felicity. "If you're offering," he said, his fingers brushing her palm when the phone changed hands.

Felicity tapped the phone to her chin. "Well, I'm sure QI's IT department could manage it by the end of the century, but I'm guessing you're in a bit of a hurry?" Her smile was more impish than she intended — but that was kinda the point.

Oliver squeezed her forearm, as close to playful as she was likely to get. "To say they're having some tech trouble…would be an understatement."

"Hm." Felicity circled over to one of the worktables and reached for one of the monitors. "That seems to be going around."

Diggle was by her desk, and he leaned over the laptop, the mass of wires curling from her desktop to its much smaller hard drive."I thought you'd graduated from fixing computers." he asked, curiously. "Did Roy spill coffee on it?"

Felicity shot Oliver a look. "Well, it's not exactly riddled with bullet holes," she said, hooking up his phone to her computer. "I went to see Martin today. Amanda left him this computer, and the encryption — in a _very_ fascinating display of maternal love — is pretty hack-resistant."

"Sounds like ARGUS," Diggle said, tapping a key to wake up the screen. " _ORACLE_ ," he read. "Acronym for something?"

Felicity blew out her breath as she typed. "You tell me. Lyla's ARGUS. Could you maybe do a little snooping?" She put on her best _please_ smile, the one associated with national-security-violating requests and big friend favors.

Diggle chuckled. "I'll see what I can do. But if you can't crack it, I don't see anyone else in ARGUS pulling it off." He pulled out his phone anyway. "For all you know, maybe Amanda planned for it to end up with you. She knew you'd visit Martin if anything happened to her."

Felicity made a face. "Not exactly your usual sagely reassurance, Dig."

"I'll see what I can find out. Meanwhile —" said Diggle, pushing off the table with a knowing smile. "It's past time I gave you guys a minute. Just remember that I have to get Oliver back to the office in an hour."

The glass door swung shut behind Diggle, and Oliver turned away from the door with a faint sigh, as if he was used to the extreme lack of subtlety in Team Arrow.

"Hi," he said, softly.

Felicity glanced over her shoulder. "Hi," she said back.

Oliver's hands were in his pockets. "I've never seen your office before," he said, looking around. "It's nice."

"Well," Felicity answered, "it used to be yours."

Oliver made a noise of amusement. "I didn't use it all that much."

Felicity looked up from the monitor and skeptically eyed her office. Oliver was as neat as a pin when it came to lairs/offices/homes, and she was…well…decent. There was an impressive constellation of papers across the various worktables, a laboratory-grade microscope (long story), and lots of monitors, one of which she was currently using.

To say she was getting use out of the office would be a colossal understatement.

Felicity was supposed to be keeping her eyes on the monitor and the tracer program she was encrypting Oliver's phone with, but she couldn't help but look over at him just the same. True to Oliver-Queen-repressive form, he was examining a deconstructed computer hard drive with mild interest. His fingertips tapped lightly on the table as he did, and Felicity realized that she was creepy-staring again.

Which wasn't completely her fault, given the way Oliver looked in a suit. Perfect Human Specimens generally looked good in anything, but Felicity remembered how her heart used to do embarrassing skippy-motions back when she was still an IT girl seventeen floors down from his office.

Still did.

The computer was still running when Felicity turned, leaning back against the table. "You know," she said, in what she imagined was a _flirty_ voice, "we never really talked about the ground rules for office visits."

Oliver didn't even look up. "Felicity, relax, I'm not going to out you to Palmer."

Felicity paused, because she found the terminology — inappropriately — funny. "I'm not averse to the… _outing_ ," she said. "I just have extensive experience with awkward situations, and I try to avoid creating them on purpose."

"Like telling him I was in your hotel room the whole time you were in Moscow," Oliver said, demonstrating his uncanny ability to read her mind.

"Moscow would be one of them, yes. But —" Felicity leaned her head on her shoulder, a shy smile warming her face. "Moscow was very nice."

Oliver took the cue and moved a little closer, until they were at an exquisite level of _almost_ , until she was looking up at his face. "You're not worried about Palmer finding out?" he asked softly, but she swore his eyes flickered down to her lips.

Felicity toyed with the end of his tie, pulling him closer still. "Bound to happen sometime," she said, and tilted her head back as if she was expecting his kiss.

It was easy to look at Oliver's mouth and imagine all sorts of — frankly — unspeakable things. Bringing up Moscow was both a very good, and very bad idea. It all depended on what happened next.

Who would have moved first, Felicity really couldn't say. But the next thing she knew, the computer beeped and startled them both.

With a faint flicker of disappointment, Felicity reached behind the monitor and unplugged Oliver's phone. "There — we — go —" she said, and held it out to him. "All set."

Instead of taking the phone, Oliver's hand was suddenly under her chin, tipping her face up to his, and before she knew it — his mouth was on hers and all pretenses of workplace decency went right out the twenty-seventh-floor window.

Even though Oliver had her by the waist, Felicity still felt herself arch backward with the enthusiasm of his kiss. She wrapped her arms around his neck and (vaguely) thought how it was a good thing that she had a table behind her, because Oliver's kiss threatened to destabilize her knees altogether.

Sometime during the whole bending-back thing, Felicity's elbow nudged one of the monitors, and she only belatedly realized that it was falling when Oliver's (frankly, inhuman) reflexes kicked in and he caught it by the wires before it made a crash-landing.

Oliver's beard rubbed against her cheek when they both turned to look at the almost-damage behind them, and she heard him release a breath of relief. Felicity's hands shook against Oliver's face as she tried to smother her laughter. "Oops," she said, as the monitor dangled precariously between floor and table like an oversized pendulum.

With the way they were aggressively leaning against the table, it took some creative maneuvering to get the monitor back onto solid ground, and by then, Felicity was laughing.

"Sorry," she said, trying to keep a straight face. "I just keep wondering whether we can make out like a regular couple — i.e. _without_ breaking things."

Oliver's hand lingered on her hip. "Unlikely," he murmured. "But speaking of the conventional, I was wondering if you wanted to stay over at my place tonight."

"Mm." Felicity leaned back to see his face, pretending to consider. "I'd say…that for a request like that, you might have to take me to dinner first."

In response, Oliver shifted his body in a _highly_ effective way, one forced her to bite her lip to keep herself from making a supremely embarrassing noise. "You know what you're doing," she said, a little breathlessly.

"Is that a yes?" he asked, tantalizingly close to her lips.

Felicity was about to answer when she caught sight of the half-open door over Oliver's shoulder…and the person standing with his hand poised to knock.

Fate really needed to work on the _sense of humor_ side of things, because it had the _irony_ part down pat.

"Ray!" she said, a little louder than was probably necessary. " _Hi._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, yeah, the above scene is my retaliation for that (admittedly cute) scene in the office with Raylicity. (Eurgh) Also, Ray had to find out sometime. Oh, and what am I doing with Ray and Felicity and Oliver? *Cue shifty look*
> 
> Oh good lord, stop giving me good fanfiction ideas during class. Teachers can tell I am not paying attention by the gleeful look on my face while I frantically type all the brain farts down before they drift away.
> 
> I CANNOT wait for 3x17, partly because of the wedding, and partly because I legit want to see Ray make the stupendously moronic decision to go after Oliver Queen. Bring. It. On.
> 
> Also, this may make me a stalker, but I've been on the Previously TV fanfic forum for Arrow (you really should check it out, there's some hilarious stuff going on there, fanfic, fanvids, fanart, etc.), and someone called Wonderwall very nicely keeps reccing Legacies. So this is an excessively roundabout way of saying thanks.
> 
> I swear this is the last point, but I did make a trailer-ish thing for You're His Hope (which is on Youtube and my Tumblr). If anyone's interest is piqued, search "You're His Hope Olicity fanfic" and it should come right up. Cheers, and happy Easter Break for anyone lucky enough to be in the UK for this glorious month-long vacation.


	15. Awkward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3x17! I'm so excited. I want Oliver to kick Ray's butt so badly.

Felicity racked her brain for the manual of possible responses to being caught kissing a secret boyfriend-slash-fiancé by one's boss.

 _Aaaaand…_ blank.

Mostly because Ray looked different from the way he normally did. Normal Ray was perpetually distracted with the pursuit of some idea, by dual trains of thought in his endless wheel of multitasking innovations. But she'd never seen him look as intent as he did then, staring at her…and Oliver.

There was an acronym to describe his expression, what was it…oh —

 _W-T-F_.

"Felicity," he said. "Oliver. I thought you'd left after the meeting."

"Oh." Felicity realized that she still hadn't moved away from Oliver, and that _he_ had made absolutely no move to rectify their current pose either. "Uh — Oliver?"

Oliver had been looking towards Ray, and now he turned his head in response to her question — as if he'd just realized that there was a problem. Only she saw the flicker of surprise in his eyes, quickly hidden beneath the exterior of the unflappable CEO. She took his outstretched hand to get back upright, teetering slightly on her heels — occupational hazard of making out against a table. A hasty sidelong glance told her that Oliver was still as cool as a cucumber, adjusting his tie (which had gone crooked for various reasons) as if nothing was the matter. Apparently being caught in somewhat compromising circumstances didn't faze him…at all. She really needed to learn that trick.

"Mr. Palmer," said Oliver, with a faint smile.

Ray was frowning in a rare display of confusion, his eyes darting between her and Oliver. "Please…call me Ray," he said absently, but Felicity got the impression that it was more out of reflex than anything else.

"Did you need something?" Felicity prompted, gently.

"Oh." Ray shook his head, like he had water in his ears. "I was just gonna tell you how the meeting went, but…I'm guessing you already heard." He slipped his hands into his pockets, a little sheepishly. "So, you two a thing, huh? Not exactly surprised, BTW, I just thought you guys were doing the non-platonic flirting routine."

Felicity didn't look at Oliver, even though she knew her face was uncomfortably pink. Ray was her friend — her almost-vigilante-partner — her responsibility. She took a step forward, her hands clasped tightly together because the alternative was having them fly all over the place from fidgeting. "Oliver and I are…engaged, actually."

Huh. Just saying it was even more awkward than she imagined.

"Oh." Ray actually glanced down at her hand. " _Oh._ Were you guys hiding the ring because you thought it'd be awkward? Because I'm seriously not that kind of boss. I know I keep weird hours and have no personal life, but it doesn't mean I expect my employees to do the same."

"Actually —"

Felicity nearly jumped when Oliver spoke, but she saw him step towards her and — completely without thinking — slipped her arm around him, just as surely as his arm came around to encircle her waist.

They leaned into each other, and Felicity couldn't help but smile at Oliver. "We do things a little — unconventionally — and the both of us wanted to keep the engagement quiet," he said, smoothly.

Ray hesitated, before extending his hand. "Well, my congratulations to you both. I'm sorry if I interrupted anything, I tend to have really bad timing."

Oliver grasped his hand. "Not at all. It's Felicity's office."

Felicity couldn't help but notice that they both let go very quickly.

" _Aaaand_ I'm right here," she said, more to defuse the tension than anything else. Without letting go of Oliver, she gently touched Ray's arm, her instinctive response to WTF looks and traumatized expressions like the one she'd just seen on his face.

"Look, Ray, it had nothing to do with you as a boss — it's just our way of keeping things quiet. You know how Oliver practically has his own spot on page six, and I — well — _don't_. We actually don't even live together because the tabloids set up camp outside his apartment building and Oliver won't let me water-balloon them from the balcony since apparently that's a _felony_ —"

Oliver cleared his throat. "Felicity," he said, through his teeth.

"Right." Felicity tapped her forehead, trying to work out where she'd lost her train of thought. "What I meant to say…is that this QI/Palmer Tech deal has _nothing_ to do with me and Oliver's personal involvement, and it never will. You don't have to worry about a thing, we've set up our own spheres of influence when it comes to work — totally protected zones, which — believe me — is _not_ what we usually do, protection-wise, I mean."

It took the both of them looking at her with raised eyebrows for her to realize what she'd just said. She'd totally meant their lives in the Foundry, where they told each other everything. _Definitely_ not the other thing.

But Ray didn't know that.

Felicity's nervous laughter kicked in. "I mean — of _course_ — we use protection," she said, waving her hand like she could distract them from the disastrous turn the conversation had just taken. "I'm not talking about _that_ kind of protection, what I mean is that — I don't tell Oliver about our side of the deal, and he doesn't tell me anything. _Not_ that we are — in any way irresponsible adults when it comes to the... _you know_." Felicity winced at her ability to sound like she was about twelve. Anyway, not the point. "But about the deal, it's completely safe — I can't get a word out of him, lips sewn shut, the whole shebang-thingamajig..." Felicity trailed off and glanced at Oliver, partly to gauge how well she'd done in the cover story.

Oliver's lips were tightly pressed together and he was wearing the expression he got whenever she tried to educate him about server processing capacities and shadow RAM.

_Frack._

"Actually — it's fine." Ray scratched his eyebrow, looking oddly torn between laughter and befuddlement. "No worries…I think. I wish you both nothing but the best, and if anything, this means our deal's even _less_ likely to fall apart. You guys aren't like Sid and Nancy, right? Because I'm going to need some _serious_ PR if that's a yes."

Felicity looked up at Oliver. "No, we aren't," she said, with a smile.

Oliver turned his head and smiled back, as if he could tell what she was thinking. They weren't a Sid and Nancy (thank God for that), but more of a…Bonnie and Clyde. If Bonnie and Clyde had decided to save the city instead of drive around the country robbing banks, becoming the subject of movies and bolstering the market for couple-coordinated Halloween costumes.

But she digressed.

Ray cleared his throat, a little awkwardly. "I actually do have to talk to you — _Felicity_ -you, I mean — about the meeting with Wayne Mining, so—"

"— I understand. I should head back to the office anyway." Oliver looked around. "I just need…my phone."

"Right — _right_." Felicity hurriedly followed Oliver over to the worktable to reclaim his nearly-forgotten phone. He found it almost immediately, nestled in the general chaos of papers and crooked monitors.

"Sorry," he murmured, slipping it into his jacket pocket.

Felicity shook her head, because it very evidently wasn't a mistake she regretted. At all. She straightened his tie for him and smoothed down the front of his suit jacket. "See you tonight?" she said, her hands resting on his chest.

Oliver's palm was warm in the small of Felicity's back when he leaned in to kiss her lightly on the mouth. "See you tonight," he agreed.

Felicity nodded, and reluctantly let him slip away from her. Oliver shot her a look as he closed the glass doors behind him, as if he knew that she was still watching. The sunlight caught on the shoulders and back of his gray suit as he walked towards the elevators, where Diggle was waiting for him.

"Right," she said, turning back to Ray. "Where were we?"

* * *

Oliver still felt the warmth of Felicity's cheek on his lips, hot and flustered from their last encounter. It occurred to Oliver that most people would have been embarrassed at being caught in a somewhat compromising position.

But he wasn't most people, and as small-minded as it was, he could still recall in vivid detail the time he'd walked up to Felicity's office with the intention of telling her exactly how he felt…and saw her kissing Ray Palmer.

As much as it had been his fault for pushing Felicity away in the first place, the thought of Felicity and Ray as something more never failed to awaken something dark and twisted in his gut. The reversal of circumstances seemed — at least in this instance — somewhat fair.

Except the three of them were partners now, engaged in the same cause of making Starling City a better place, and most important of all — he trusted Felicity. She held his heart as surely as he knew he had hers, freely given and willingly received. In his history of infidelities with other women, she had never doubted, and the thought of doubting her had never once occurred to him.

"I see you two are batting at your usual level of discretion," Diggle said, sarcastically, when Oliver reached him at the elevators. He was smiling, unabashed about teasing Oliver when it came to Felicity.

Oliver only raised an eyebrow. "Couldn't resist."

"Right," Diggle's frank appraisal was making its usual mark, "so it has nothing to do with making things clear to a certain Mr. Palmer?"

Oliver followed his gaze to Felicity's office, where she was standing by the worktable with Palmer, typing as he talked.

They were a contrast of light and dark, of heights and builds, but so utterly alike in intellect — a combination that used to unnerve him. Her head was tilted slightly to the side as she listened to what Palmer was saying, completely unaware that Oliver was still there. Always bright, acutely focused on the task at hand, and devastatingly smart.

If — _if_ his instincts about Palmer's feelings for Felicity were accurate, it would be ironic, to say the least. Because she had no idea. In many ways, she was still a girl abandoned by a father she barely remembered, indoctrinated with the misconception that there was very little to love about her, deeply wounded by the times someone she loved had walked away. Oliver wasn't innocent of that either, nor was he ignorant of the fact that after all this time, she could be utterly oblivious to the fact that she had in her heart — her core — something…indestructibly, undeniably rare.

The kind of purity that was so earnestly easy to love, an enduring light that helped others find their own…a heart he had the privilege to love, for the rest of his days.

Oliver sighed. "He's in love with her," he said, a thoughtful admission of what he already knew — that it was effortlessly uncomplicated, the act of falling in love with Felicity Meghan Smoak.

Diggle chuckled, holding the elevator doors for him. "You're slow to catch on, Oliver."

* * *

Felicity glanced up from her work and across the table at Ray. His brow was furrowed in concentration as he figured his way through a tricky piece of coding.

"Are we really…okay?" she asked, tentatively.

Ray looked over at her. "Of course," he said, but she wasn't reassured by his lack of a smile, or the rare unpunctuated silence that usually never existed when they were working in the same room.

Felicity stepped around the table, as if she was stepping on broken glass. "You've got frowny face," she commented. "Are you sure you're not mad?"

Ray sighed, and let his chin drop to his chest. "No, I'm not mad. I'm frustrated because I can't connect the virtual TCP to the open source sensor, something I've been trying to do for two weeks. Contrary to popular belief, persistence is not — repeat — _not_ paying off."

Felicity had to smile. "Well," she said, sliding the wireless keyboard away from Ray's hands. "You should have said so."

"Uh, Felicity." Ray just looked skeptical. "I know you think I'm mad — which BTW I am _not_ — but that's just suicide. It is _legitimately_ impossible to figure this out, because like I said, two weeks —"

Felicity tapped the final key. "And _bingo_ ," she said, and rotated the monitor so that he could see. "All done."

Ray sighed. "You have no idea how to play bingo, do you?" he muttered, but bent closer to the screen. She tilted her head to the side and tried not to look smug as she watched him absorb the new development. "That…is…inhuman."

"Why, thank you. I've been trying for thirty seconds."

Ray looked at her over the computer. "What are you and which future galaxy did you come from?"

Their laughter made the room feel a little less cold, the atmosphere a lot less strained. Felicity leaned her elbow on the table, smugness achieved. "So we're all right?" she said.

Ray gave her a look. "Of course. You're one of my closest friends. You were the _first_ person I asked to move to London with me — heck, I even asked you to fight crime with me. I'm not gonna stop talking to you just because you didn't tell me you got engaged. I mean, you had your reasons. Tabloids _suck_. Last week they said I was dating a panda, when I'm obviously a brown bear type of guy."

Felicity made a face. "Is that some kind of euphemism?"

Ray chuckled. "Fortunately not. Anyway, the point is, don't worry about it." His phone pinged, and he picked it up, effortlessly switching gears. Usual Ray again. "Which reminds me, I owe you an engagement present."

"Ray, you found out half an hour ago."

He waved his hand breezily. "I work fast."

"Please — just nothing… _alive_ , okay? Or…gooey."

Ray looked vaguely offended. "I'm not going to get you _The Swamp Thing_ as an engagement gift." He shook his head with a sigh, going back to his work. "How'd the Arrow take it, BTW?" Ray asked, glancing up at her between typing.

"The Arrow?" Felicity repeated, taken aback because in her head Oliver and the Arrow were one and the same. She'd spent the whole last year trying to slap them together that it seemed abnormal to think of them as two separate entities…even in front of people who had no idea that the CEO of QI went around shooting pointy objects at criminals during the nocturnal hours.

She realized Ray was waiting for her to answer. "Oh — the _Arrow_ ," she said, lightly. "You're not trying to take emotional cues from the guy who still uses a bow and arrow in the 21st Century, are you?" _Insert quick mental apology to Oliver here,_ she thought.

Ray shrugged. "I always thought you had a thing for the Arrow. I mean, Oliver's not bad-looking, but the Arrow's the one who kept you in Starling City, right? Seems like he at least deserves to know you're moving on…with a pretty great guy. And I'm like...70% hetero."

Felicity turned back to her computer. "Huh. Never thought about it that way."

"70% hetero? I know, and it's actually not as uncommon as people think — but what I meant to say..." Ray took a deep breath. "I just hope you'll stick with the Arrow. It'd be a shame if you stopped — you know — saving the city. Starling would be pretty sucky without you protecting it."

Felicity laughed at the mental image Ray suited up as the ATOM, in comparison to her simple back-supporting chair in the Foundry. "Says the Metal Man who can fire bazookas from both hands."

"Felicity," Ray said, earnestly. "You're important to the city. I hope you know that by now."

Felicity nodded, slowly, and a little shyly. "Thank you, Ray," she said. "It means a lot. Coming from the ATOM himself."

He grinned at her. "Anytime."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dying. I hate this paper on insanity and automatism I'm supposed to be writing, but I want to get it out of the way so I can keep going with Legacies.
> 
> So apparently Ray Palmer's Tumblr nickname is Rag Pampers now. I am cool with this, but I would like to understand what I am cool with. If someone could explain the name to me, I'd appreciate it forever. (And maybe reward you with a deleted scene or something :D).


	16. A Larger Game

"Left — high," said Oliver.

Thea's bare feet squeaked against the Foundry floor when she launched herself at him. Oliver knew the maneuvers even before she did them — two swift jabs that he parried off his forearms, and a final kick that should have caught him under the chin. But he trapped her ankle easily between his arms and held it there.

He could feel the force of the kick vibrating in his bones. Thea was getting stronger.

"Good," he said, his breathing tight and controlled. "Now what?"

Thea wobbled, her leg still caught in his grip. She kept her fists braced in front of her face, but her eyes smoldered with frustration as she fought to remember what he'd taught her, to concentrate on her training.

"Control your emotions," Oliver repeated, a mantra that he needed his sister to learn. "Something unexpected just happened. What — do — you — do?"

Thea gritted her teeth, and Oliver saw her remaining leg tense in preparation for a spring.

Suddenly, she wasn't on the ground anymore. Thea's feet slammed into his chest and she kicked off of him like a springboard. Oliver stumbled back a few paces, his collarbone stinging, and watched his sister land a good twelve feet away. She hit the ground with a grunt and threw her hand out to slow her skid across the Foundry floor.

"Good use of a surprise move." Oliver made his way over to her and offered a helping hand. "But work on the landing."

Thea was breathing heavily when she gripped his hand and let him pull her back up. "Brother of the year," she said, visibly irritated as she reached for her water.

Fortunately — like Roy — it was only from hurt pride. Oliver acknowledged his harshness as a teacher and kissed his sister's damp forehead. "You're learning," he said, gently.

Thea's glare softened and she offered him the water in a reconciliatory gesture. "I can't believe the both of you still have time to come down here. Haven't you guys heard of date nights?"

Oliver glanced automatically at Felicity, hidden by the tall back of her chair. Even from this distance he could hear her rapid typing, the familiar sound of her brain operating at its usual superhuman pace. "We all have identities to balance," he said, and turned back to her. "Another round?"

* * *

Felicity heard something crash (and possibly break) in the background. Queen siblings were certainly bred to be polished and picture-perfect for the papers, but behind the scenes they had an unfortunate tendency to make things go crack-boom-splat.

As much as she would have liked to turn her chair and observe Oliver training shirtless, she had A) an uncrackable computer to deal with, and B) a certain Bratva alias to track down, also proving to be surprisingly elusive. Maybe Oliver not wearing a shirt was throwing her off her game.

No, that couldn't be it. If she could track down bad guys while Oliver Salmon-Laddered in the background, she could do anything, even if an unspoken rule (in her head, at least) of vigilante training appeared to be the absence of a shirt on her fiancé.

"Guys, I know we're not exactly operating at prime real estate standards here," Felicity winced at the sound of wood splintering, "but try not to break the Foundry?"

In response to her respectful request, a snapped rattan stick went rolling past her chair.

"Great," she muttered, and swiveled in her chair to face them. They'd been fighting for about twenty minutes — _something_ had to give.

Having seen Oliver take on at least ten League assassins in a subterranean arena, the sight of him training with Diggle, Roy, and Thea didn't exactly qualify as a battle royale, but it was surprisingly difficulty to tell which side _anyone_ was on.

Oliver parried Thea's swing and tapped her on the arm. "Pick up the pace, Speedy," he called, and whirled in the same, unbroken motion to swipe Roy's feet out from under him.

Diggle approached Oliver more warily, but no less ferociously. She caught Oliver's smile as the two of them exchanged a rapid-fire series of blows that resembled blurs than actual distinct motions, culminating in a deafening crash as their staffs locked in a stalemate.

Behind them, Roy had silently risen to his feet and twirled the rattan canes in his hands with a soundless grace. Felicity saw his head tilt up, and his secret smile. She followed his gaze all the way up, up —

Felicity watched what Thea was doing with a smidge of disbelief and a whole lot of admiration. Because she had somehow managed to get herself onto the rafters, bare feet and all, and crouched there, as silent as a cat gauging the right moment to pounce.

And, wait for it —

Thea launched herself from the ledge with a wordless cry and came up behind Oliver with a swing that would have _seriously_ impressed in a baseball diamond. Oliver hurled himself away from Diggle (who had Roy to contend with anyway) and caught her mid-blow.

Without missing a beat, Thea's other arm swung out, and the staff went flying from Oliver's right hand. Felicity saw her make a swipe at Oliver's head — except she didn't. There it hovered, the polished (and very painful) stick stopped just short of her brother's skull.

"Does this mean I win?" Thea asked, breathing hard.

Oliver cocked his head. "Not quite," he answered, and shoved his other staff behind her knee — sweeping her straight off her legs.

Thea landed flat on her back with a grunt. "This," she muttered, "is just _so_ rewarding."

Roy, who'd floored Diggle, stood with his hands on his hips and sighed heavily. " _So_ close."

Oliver tucked the staffs under one arm and offered his sister a hand. "You're getting there," he said. "Making good use of your surroundings is key. But you keep making the same mistake as Roy — as soon as you think you've won, you drop your guard."

Thea rubbed her lower back ruefully. "Point taken."

But Oliver was firm. "Not until you learn the lesson."

"Got any ice?"

Felicity looked away from the siblings to focus on Roy, who brandished a decent-sized welt on his forearm, as red as his Arsenal suit.

"Team strategy didn't work, huh?" Felicity said sympathetically, handing him a bag of ice unearthed from the supply. Existing below a nightclub had its perks (partial deafness from thudding club music aside) — the one thing they weren't short of was ice.

Roy sighed, and sarcastically saluted Thea as she approached. " _Tag team_ , she said. _We can beat him_ , she said. I told you I should have taken on Oliver — Diggle's too nice to knock anyone on their back."

"Oh, shut up." Thea gave her boyfriend's bruise an affectionate flick and danced out of the way before he could catch her, laughing like a sprite. But eventually she held a bag of ice to her shoulder and submitted without complaint to Felicity's half-competent doctoring. What she knew of Oliver as a mentor meant that she was ever-wary about his unforgiving methods, even if it was his own sister. Felicity parted her sweaty hair to check for cuts.

"How many fingers?" she asked, holding up her pinky.

Thea laughed and grabbed Felicity's hand. "I'm _fine_ ," she said. "Roy's been knocked down plenty of times and he's…relatively normal."

They both glanced over at Roy, who tapped on the side of his skull. "Hard head."

Diggle threw Roy his shirt and pulled his on with a chuckle. "As far as I'm concerned, anyone who can sneak up on Oliver deserves a prize."

Felicity made a skeptical noise. "I think a mirror has a better chance of getting that prize."

"And I patiently await the day when that changes," Oliver said, making his abrupt appearance out of nowhere. He kissed Thea's forehead — which was brotherly love right there, given the amount of grime and sweat on her face — and made his way over to Felicity.

"Oo —" Felicity's hands slipped against his shoulders when he leaned in to kiss her. "You're all sweaty," she said, when they eventually broke apart.

Oliver smiled because he was well aware that it wasn't a complaint, not at all. "How was work?" he asked.

"Missed my handsome boys on the 27th floor," she said, jokingly. "And Ray's head didn't explode after yesterday, so I think we're in the clear —"

Felicity tensed at the sound of the computer alert. They had a match.

Oliver was at her side immediately, watching as her hands flew across the keyboard, racing to keep up with her mind. "What is that?" he asked.

"My program cross-referenced international criminal databases and our — I mean — the FBI's — records." Felicity's eyes darted across the panels of text scrolling across the screen — reports…and photos.

"Whoa," she breathed.

* * *

"Well, it's not hard to see why no one _else_ wanted the job," Felicity said. "If you've got a candidate with a dozen or more unexplained deaths, car bombs, and dangerous weaponry incidents on her record, you're going to want her to lead your local branch of the Russian mob."

"—and assassinations." Roy's voice was biting with his obvious disgust.

"Which _one_?" Felicity asked, scanning the _many_ options. A part of her wanted to look at the list with her hands over her eyes — it was that disturbing.

Roy dragged his finger across the screen, like he was trying to draw a big red circle around a paragraph in one of the reports.

"Roy, you do realize the computers aren't touchscreen, right?" Thea said, perched on the desk beside the monitor.

Roy ignored her. "I mean look at _that_ — Ambassador Tseng's assassination? It was a car crash. We didn't even know it was a hit."

"This _is_ an FBI classified report," Diggle pointed out, reasonably. "We didn't know what we were looking for."

"Something's not right," Oliver said, abruptly. They all turned. His arms were folded, and he lifted his head like he'd just been absorbed in his thoughts. "To take out high-value targets the way she does, she has to be experienced. She's not an amateur."

Felicity gestured at the numerous reports. _Hello? Super Death Assassin leading the Bratva here_. Oliver jerked his head, as if he could tell what she was thinking. "The dates," he said. "The earliest one is from two years ago. There's no way an assassin of her caliber only has two years of experience under her belt."

"Is there a manual we could consult?" Felicity said, drumming her fingers on the chair armrests. " _The Assassin's Guide to a Promising Career?_ "

"I've been an assassin," Oliver said, softly. "She's been doing this for a while."

Their eyes locked, and a shiver of something unsaid passed between them, of heads resting in laps and murmured confidences, of secrets whispered across the narrow space of a shared pillow...Oliver's past. Felicity turned without a word and started to type. Oliver was right. The Selena alias only went back two years, around the time Oliver had disappeared with the League. No — Felicity shook off the suspicion. If there'd been a Selena training in Nanda Parbat, Oliver would have known. And the League of Assassins wasn't exactly the kind of club you exchanged for the Russian mob. Well, now that Nyssa was in charge — the unforgiving membership policies had possibly been loosened, but she didn't have time to make a long-distance call.

She didn't know how long she'd been typing — she tended to lose track of time that way. Seasons used to change while she'd sat in her chair, working merrily away in her home element. Zeroes and ones didn't lie — all so-called secrets left a trail. Unless —

"You're right." Felicity tracked the work of her program while she talked. "She may not have a trail, but trust me, nobody's that clean. Which made me think, maybe somebody —"

"— is covering her tracks." Oliver's voice was wary.

"Exactly." Felicity's fingers picked up speed, almost, almost there. "Whoever this Selena is, she's got someone good backing her. Someone _scary_ good. Like good with hacking good."

"So — you."

Felicity smiled in spite of the situation. "I'm flattered, but Me 2.0 forgot that I don't work for Big Evil." She turned in her chair to face Oliver — to face them all. "Oliver, I don't think you should meet Selena. There's a reason why her record didn't exist until two years ago. Like it was — an audition. A way to catch the Bratva's eye. Like they _wanted_ her in there."

"A trap." Oliver didn't sound particularly fazed. "But it's not meant for me. There's a reason the person — the thing — behind Selena wants her in the Bratva, wants her controlling it. I don't I'm the target here. I think there's a larger game that we're not a part of."

They could literally hear him add a _yet_ to that sentence.

Felicity glanced helplessly at Diggle, who nodded in receipt of her message. "Look, man, I want to find the person who killed Andy too — but not if means you walking directly into a trap."

Oliver only stared at Diggle without saying a thing. Behind them, the computer started to blare again — but it wasn't about Selena. It was their regularly scheduled programming. Felicity turned her chair with a heavy breath. "Robbery on Green Avenue," she said. "I take it we're still in the business of fighting crime? Not suicide missions?"

Oliver's hand pressed briefly between her shoulder blades, and Felicity closed her eyes from the momentary reassurance, the wordless promise.

"We'll talk about this later," she said, reaching for her earpiece. "Go."

Oliver nodded and turned to the others. "Suit up."

* * *

 _We'll talk later_ meant a _lot_ later in Oliver's book. Felicity's mind churned with unanswered questions as she rummaged around in her bag for the elevator access card, standing in the drafty parking lot of his apartment building. Oliver called from the robbery site, saying there was going to be a late cleanup — roughly translated as an opportunity for her to doze off by the time he got home, thereby evading the Don't-Risk-It conversation.

Penthouse apartment and a direct elevator meant that she couldn't exactly punch a hole in the card and keep it on a chain along with her other, more normal keys. It also meant that it was somewhere at the bottom of her bag. Felicity shivered when a cold wind swept through the underground parking lot. She knew it was a private lot, but ever since she'd found Oliver bleeding in the backseat of her car, she'd taken to peering into backseats and around corners in carparks. They were the petri dishes of crime-and-creepy happenings.

Felicity finally ducked into the elevator, the elusive keycard clipped between two fingers. It occurred to her that she could have hacked the security systems instead of all the pointless groping (ha, that sounded dirty), but her brain unfortunately excelled at thinking up helpful solutions...post-crisis. She swiped the card and pressed _P_ , backed all the way against the wall and stayed that way until the doors opened into Oliver's apartment.

High ceilings and a whole lot of glass meant that Oliver's place was as airy as airy could get. Dark-wooded floorboards to contrast the earthy slate tiles that made up the counters and the shelves. Not that she'd had much experience with penthouse apartments, but she'd always associated them with the intimidating vibe of an art gallery, AKA a place where she was highly likely to break something.

But not this place. The floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the harbor, dazzling in the day and suitably enigmatic in the night. Felicity kicked off her shoes and stepped up onto the ledge, one hand braced against the glass as she stared at the city skyline. This place suited Oliver the way her boxy apartment suited her. She liked quirky, she liked worn and well-used. Oliver was a guardian, a man born to be surrounded by things surpassing the ordinary.

It wasn't hard to see why he'd chosen the place. The tiles and the wood reminded her of cave walls and forest floors, and the view over the city — while breathtaking — reminded her of something else. The feeling of being able to watch over the city _was_ something else.

This — this was an aerie.

Felicity's phone buzzed against the kitchen counter, and she padded barefoot across the polished floorboards to pick it up.

"Oo, speak of the Devil," she muttered, when she read the display. "You've reached Oliver Queen's residence," she said, in her best telephone-operator voice.

"How much trouble am I in?" Oliver sounded resigned.

Felicity pinned the phone between her shoulder and ear as she pulled a bottle of wine from the glass-fronted cabinet. One _big_ perk of Oliver's apartment — the wine collection. "Well, that depends on how quickly you get home," she said, pouring an inch or so into her glass.

"Why?"

Felicity reached up to loosen her ponytail. "Because," she said, and savored the rich taste of the wine on her tongue, the huskiness in her voice that meant she wanted him. "I'm going to take a shower."

Oliver laughed, breathily. "I'll be home soon," he answered.

"You'd better."

Felicity ended the call with a smile, and carried her glass of wine into the bedroom.

* * *

Felicity tipped her head back to the jet of hot water, feeling the tension seep out of her bones and swirl down the drain with the soapy water. The end of another day. Well, not quite yet. She still had one of the fun parts to look forward to — if only Oliver would get home before her skin got too pruny.

The shower cubicle was glass on all sides, fogged up from the heat of the water. She wiped her hand across the door and peered out into the bathroom. She'd briefly considered leaving the door open on purpose — as a weird kind of come-hither, home fixture edition — but a very non-romantic part of her brain thought the romance would be dampened by her sneezing from the chill.

Super romantic.

Either way, no sign of him yet. Felicity turned back to the steady stream of water with a sigh, resigning herself to Oliver's eternally-dubious sense of timing.

It seemed like only minutes later when she felt a chill sweep across her bare spine, tickling the five long scars that marked her back. Felicity turned her head slightly, blinking the water out of her eyes.

"Oliver?" she said.

No response. The swathe of glass that she'd wiped clean was coated with a thin layer of condensation, but even though she felt… _watched —_ Felicity couldn't see a telltale shadow through the mist.

Felicity shivered and hurriedly turned off the water. Fun shower times did _not_ account for the creepy chill. She'd just managed to get her robe around her when she realized that the bathroom door was slightly — very slightly ajar. Simple science told her that neglecting to firmly close a door would allow it to swing open from a shift in air pressure, from a stray draft, but this — this — didn't feel right.

Water dripped from her hair and soaked the shoulders of her robe as she stepped carefully out of the bathroom, barefoot and very, very wary. The abrupt clash of cool air against hot skin raised goosebumps all along her arms and neck, but Felicity kept moving. The bedroom was pristine and untouched, the door open as she'd left it. Felicity slipped one of the desk drawers open and closed her hand around a slim letter opener.

Felicity made it downstairs with the thin metal stiletto at her side, scanning the apartment for signs that something wasn't right. Oliver wouldn't joke like this — Oliver didn't _joke_ , period.

"Oliver?" she said, again, but her voice only echoed in the empty apartment.

Felicity's paranoid walking tour of the apartment ended in the kitchen. She rested her forehead against the wine cabinet with a sigh, her breath fanning across the glass cabinet in the shape of an arrow.

False alarm.

She backed up against the kitchen counter and unlocked her phone with shaking fingers. She'd just started to dial when something — spidey-sense, intuition — made her look up, and she caught sight of a reflection in the wine cabinet.

And it wasn't Oliver.

For an instant, it was as if her instincts had been signal-jammed by her nerves, her distraction, and she didn't recognize the ghost in the glass, the mirage in the door. Because it was impossible. It had to be.

Then, all too slowly, the last piece finally clicked into place. Felicity spun around, her heart slamming against her ribs.

"What are you doing here?" she said.

Malcolm Merlyn smiled, a curiously cold smile that reminded her he was a League-trained killer, a father who'd killed his own son. A psychopath who wouldn't hesitate to kill again. "Hello Felicity," he said, pleasantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeesh.


	17. A Courtesy Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm late with the update. Been squeezing in study, writing papers and kicking jetlag.

Felicity had been in Oliver's apartment enough times to know where everything was. She knew the safest place was the bedroom and the quickest way to get there, the obstacles she could throw behind her if she ran, the half a dozen knives slotted inside a knife block just an arms-length away (if she was in a confrontational mood), and failing that — the letter opener and a working phone in either hand.

But somehow, even with all her options open and present, Felicity had never felt more exposed or more vulnerable.

Because Malcolm Merlyn, the mass-murdering psychopath, was in Oliver's apartment. She wasn't even surprised that he was alive — the team had been made well aware of his survival when Nyssa tried to hunt him down on the suspicion that he'd killed Sara. He hadn't, but that only meant there was one less bloodstain on his already-filthy hands.

Malcolm must have seen her eyes flicker towards the knives, because he raised one hand. "Ah — I wouldn't," he warned, with disproportionate politeness. "I really wouldn't."

Felicity's hands clenched into fists by her sides, fingernails digging into her skin.

"Why are you here?" she asked hoarsely, in a voice that didn't sound like hers, not at all. "Aren't you supposed to be on an island somewhere, _not_ being remorseful over the 503 innocent people you killed?"

His face didn't even twitch, as if it didn't occur to him that one of the 503 had been his own son.

"I suppose I wanted to talk — to Oliver." Malcolm inclined his head apologetically, but it rang false to her, as false as his love for his dead son. "But I must have badly misjudged my timing."

"Excuse me if I call BS on that one." League training _had_ to include How to Sneak Up on People 101.

Malcolm merely looked amused. "All right then — I was curious." He took a step closer, and Felicity tried to move back, but there was only the cabinet at her back and the rough stone tiles against her palms.

She bit back a noise as he circled her, the way a collector would survey an object on display. "I suppose I was curious about the woman who drove Oliver to war with the Demon himself," he murmured, still in the middle of his skin-crawling appraisal.

Felicity turned her face away when Malcolm swept a trailing lock of damp hair behind her shoulder. "A war he fought…and against insurmountable odds — _won_." The last word made her flinch.

"Oliver didn't fight Ra's al Ghul for me." Felicity's teeth were gritted. "He fought Ra's al Ghul to save his soul, and he did."

Malcolm raised his eyebrows. "Oh, but I'm sure you were part of the…motivation." His scrutiny sent an unpleasant chill up her spine. "Helen of Troy had a face that launched a thousand ships…now, Felicity, what does that make _you_?"

Felicity hated riddles. She hated mysteries. She hated people who twisted words into weapons, people like Ra's al Ghul, Amanda Waller — and Malcolm Merlyn.

And she was fast losing her patience, death threat or not.

What _did_ that make her?

"Pissed. Off." She spat the words — hissed them. Willed them to become daggers and pierce Malcolm Merlyn's armor. But she knew better than to expect remorse from him, so she did the next best thing.

She brought the letter opener up to his throat and held it there, resting in the shadow of his jaw. It'd been faster than she ever thought she was capable of, more Nyssa-like than she ever thought she could be — pressing a knife to someone's throat. Her chest rose and fell with dizzying quickness, because even though she knew why she had a knife to Malcolm Merlyn's throat, she knew for sure that she wasn't going to kill him.

For a guy with a blade on his pulse, Malcolm was taking it surprisingly well. Maybe because he knew, as well as she did, that she wasn't a killer. He raised his hands slowly, holding them sarcastically aloft as if to reassure her that he wasn't going to fight back. "My sincerest apologies for startling you, but you have my word that I am not here to take your life."

"That would be more convincing if you weren't — you know — _you_ ," Felicity answered, unable to help herself. She'd shifted her grip on the knife, a simple readjustment of the way her fingers folded around the hilt, but she'd drawn blood without realizing it…the razor-thin edge sliding soundlessly into skin.

There was an unpleasant thickness in her throat and a tremor in her arm as she watched the beads of blood form at the site of the scratch.

" _Like that?" she'd asked._

" _Like that," he'd answered, low and fierce._

It felt like a lifetime away now, a bad dream — the idea that she would ever hold a knife to Malcolm's throat. Malcolm's gaze flickered to her shaking hand — he could feel it. Of course he could.

"You're untrained — a blunt edge," he remarked, with a slight tilt to his head. "Why would Oliver leave something so precious to him…so alluringly unprotected?"

"Because he knows that I don't need to be _protected_." Felicity felt the red-hot weight in the depths of her belly, the fury that shuddered her hands.

It was hard to explain and even more impossible to articulate to someone like Malcolm, but Felicity knew where things stood. Felicity wasn't trained like Oliver — no. She hadn't suffered under unspeakable tortures and psychopathic mentors, and she had an unfortunate tendency to drop dangerous weapons on her foot instead of on an enemy, but she wasn't _weak_. She didn't need to be _sheltered_ , to be insulated from the dangers like a burden, like a child. She was at risk — they all were — but they'd made their peace with it. Within reason.

Oliver understood that. They'd always balanced each other out. He watched for her as much as she watched for him, as partners. That was where they stood.

Felicity lifted her chin and stared Malcolm down, as if she wasn't afraid, as if he wasn't the highly-trained assassin who could kill her in seven different ways before she'd even moved a muscle.

A smile flitted across Malcolm's face as he stared at Felicity. "Fierce will and a mind unmatched," he said, every syllable meant to bite. "I'm beginning to see why he wants you."

Felicity's eyes narrowed. "Who?"

In lieu of an answer, Malcolm's hand shot out and twisted her arm around in a vise-like grip. Felicity crashed into the cabinet front with a gasp, a spider-pattern of fractures radiating from where Malcolm had her wrist pinned to the glass. She jerked against his grip, against the flashes of pain lancing at her brain from his tightening hold, against the fingers digging in around her throat.

The blue in his eyes was as cold and unforgiving as steel. "I warned you not to do that," said Malcolm, calmly.

Felicity choked as the blood surged into her head, fighting for breath.

Malcolm loosened his grip slightly, even though his fingers stayed wrapped around Felicity's throat, reminding her that he could crush cartilage and tendon in a single squeeze. He sighed, as if she wearied him. "I see that Oliver's tendency to act foolishly has rubbed off on you as well. A pity."

"I said —" Felicity's voice was as rough as sandpaper and barely above a whisper "—that I don't need protecting."

"Evidently you do."

Even with her skull pressing painfully into the glass behind her, Felicity glared at Malcolm as if to kill. "Because —" she croaked, "—because he knows what I can do. I can't fire an arrow or take on a League assassin, but give me a Wi-Fi signal and something with a screen and I can decimate your life in _seconds,_ " she said, without taking her eyes off Malcolm's. She was picking up speed, gaining strength from the truth behind her words — that she wasn't weak, not at all.

"Offshore bank accounts — wired off to charities, your choice, if I'm feeling generous. Hidden assets — turned over to the FBI. All your aliases and forged travel documents plastered across every aviation security network _worldwide —_ effectively stranding you in Starling City, a place with a _gigantic_ bone to pick with you. So, no," she said. "I don't need protecting."

Malcolm stared at her for what seemed like an eternity before he removed his hand from her throat and stepped back. Felicity cradled her numb hand, pinpricked all over with glass cuts she couldn't feel — yet.

"Touché, Miss Smoak," said Malcolm, sounding — for the first time that night — like he was well and truly impressed.

* * *

Glass crunched beneath Oliver's shoes when he stepped out from the elevator doors, into the foyer of his home. Apprehension sharpened his senses and suppressed the instinctive panic rising in his throat — at the fact that something very wrong had happened, and that Felicity wasn't safe.

His fault.

Oliver couldn't panic, not now. He was the most dangerous to his loved ones when distracted, the most dangerous to his enemies when calm. And he needed to be calm now. He passed the kitchen counter, noted the overturned knife block, the radial pattern in the fractured cabinet, originating from a single source of impact. Silently, his hand slid across the glass-strewn counter and slipped a kitchen knife into the palm of his hand.

The flat of the blade pressed against his leg as he stepped out from the shadow of a column — and saw her.

Felicity was sitting on the couch in her robe, her hair still dark with moisture and clinging to her blood-drained face. Her hands were clenched on her bare knees, betraying the effort she maintained to keep herself still. Oliver took it in — all of it — with a dangerous calm, the calm that steadied him before he loosed an arrow from his bow. She noticed him with a faint start, and looked at him with eyes blazing dark against the stark paleness of her face.

She started to shake her head in a wordless gesture of panic. " _Oliver —!_ " she began, hoarsely.

It was only a shadow, a flicker in his peripheral vision, but Oliver swung around and hurled the knife as if to kill. He barely felt it leave his hand — he only saw it strike the banister with a shower of sparks and a clang of ricocheting metal.

A shadowy figure crouched at the foot of the staircase, having leapt to avoid the knife, and for an instant all Oliver saw was the crown of a sleek, dark head.

_Ra's al Ghul — Slade Wilson —_

The lithe shape rose from the ground like a ghost reborn.

— _Malcolm Merlyn._

"Hello, Oliver," said Malcolm.

* * *

"Quite a welcome," Malcolm observed. "Regrettably, the two of you seem to share that shortcoming."

Oliver was already kneeling beside Felicity, cupping her face in his hands. "Did he hurt you?" he asked, visually checking her for any sign of injury.

Felicity shook her head, tightly gripping his forearms. "He can't hurt me," she whispered back, but her hands were cold.

Oliver didn't answer, because he'd brushed her hair aside — baring the red marks on either side of her throat. The chaos in the kitchen…the cracks in the cabinet…they were piecing together a picture — a picture that was diminishing Malcolm's chances of survival by the second.

" _Malcolm,_ " he snarled.

"I didn't harm her in any way, I assure you," said Malcolm, his arms folded neatly behind his back as he stood in the center of the room like it was his to own. "She's just shaken. Threatening a League-trained assassin with very little skill to back it up can get…messy."

"Go to hell," Felicity hissed.

Malcolm smirked. "She has lovely skin, Oliver. A shame about the claw marks — trademark of a certain Cheshire cat, no doubt. A very _dead_ cat, if my sources are accurate. I suppose I have you to thank for that too."

Oliver straightened up, slowly and deliberately. His hands never once left Felicity's, not even when he turned to look Malcolm in the eye. "You made a mistake coming here tonight," he said, imbuing each word with a precarious calm — very much like the thin ice on which Malcolm still stood. "I made a promise to myself that I wouldn't kill you because of my sister — because you're still her father — but let me make this clear to you. It is an _indulgence_ , not a reprieve for the sins you've committed against this city. If you give me a reason, I will take you down like a common criminal, and trust that Thea will understand why I had to do it, for the city. Do we understand each other?"

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. "I should have called sooner," he said, with a shrug. "But circumstances kept me away — circumstances that no longer exist, thanks to your work against the League of Assassins. You have my sincerest gratitude for that. Blood debts can be _so_ cumbersome."

"Nyssa al Ghul may not be as forgiving as you think she is," Oliver answered. "I'm sure she still remembers suspecting you for Sara's death, and your violation of the League's code."

"A hollow threat, on your part," Malcolm said, with a shake of his head. "You've already shown me that you still care for your sister — enough not to send her father to his death."

"Who says you'll be dead?" Felicity snapped.

Malcolm merely acted as if she hadn't spoken.

"Although I can't say I approve of the way you've been teaching my daughter to spend her time, saving a city undeserving of salvation." Malcolm looked smug. "Tell me, are you trying to make vigilantism the family business?"

"Thea wanted to be strong." Oliver was unflinching. "And I didn't want to lose her to lies. _That_ — I learned from you."

"I wouldn't be quite so certain," said Malcolm, looking from Oliver to Felicity. "Everyone needs a father in their life, after all."

Felicity stiffened, and Oliver found himself stepping in to shield her from one of the few subjects that could truly wound her.

"You didn't come here to talk about Thea," Oliver said, sharply. "What do you want, Malcolm?"

Malcolm had a way of looking perpetually amused, even at the threat of violence. "You were always sharp. You're right — as grateful as I am for your services unwittingly rendered, I've come here with an official warning…a courtesy, if you will."

"If it's an invite to your funeral — the answer's still a hard pass." Felicity's voice was brittle with anger, a feeling Oliver was beginning to share.

"Actually, it concerns your impending meeting with the head of the Starling City Bratva," said Malcolm, and they both went still. Felicity's grip tightened wordlessly around Oliver's wrist, and they exchanged glances of mute apprehension. _How did Malcolm know?_

"Do not go through with it. The consequences will be dire — consequences you will bring not just upon yourself — but Felicity, your sister, and your friends as well."

"What consequences?" Oliver repeated.

Malcolm strode over to the elevator with a smile, as evasive as the Cheshire cat. "You'll just have to trust me on this — you _will_ regret it. If you defy my warning and throw caution to the wind, nothing will ever be the same again. Not for the alliance of vigilantes that inexplicably cleave to godforsaken city…not for the fool who still thinks the city is his to save…and not even for the love strong enough to weather an unwinnable war."

"Why are you telling me this?" Oliver asked.

"Because — in spite of everything — I've always thought of you as family. A son, even. A father's duty is to prevent his son from erring, and I feel that I should warn you of the mistake you'll be making if you choose to go ahead with the meeting. There is a larger game at play, one that doesn't and shouldn't concern you."

"If it threatens the city," Oliver promised, "it will."

"Not this one." Malcolm's voice was a whip-crack. "Trust me on this, Oliver. You do not want to go up against the hand that moves the pieces. Ra's al Ghul was a man with archaic illusions of a dark world, content to lock himself away in his dragon's den and scheme, but this gamemaster has been twisting puppets for longer than you could ever imagine. Hiding in the darkness — yes — but also biding his time. And when that time comes, it will be a future where nobody, and nothing, will ever be the same again."

Malcolm turned to look over his shoulder at them. "Goodnight, Oliver — choose wisely," he called, as the doors slid shut.

Oliver was immobile for the brief second it took to make sure that Malcolm was truly gone. Then it was like the floodgates had opened, and all he could see — all he could comprehend — was her, just her.

"Felicity —"

Oliver turned at the exact moment Felicity slammed into him in a crushing hug. He almost stumbled back in surprise, half-expecting anger on her part for exposing her to the danger — but then she teetered on her toes, her arms wound tight around his neck, and Oliver realized that she'd been as afraid as he was.

"I thought he was here to kill you," Felicity whispered, her heartbeat thudding against his chest in a wordless confirmation of her distress.

Oliver shut his eyes and inhaled her scent, letting it calm him. His fears and hers were opposing reflections in the same dark mirror, each of them fearing that the other had been hurt — or worse.

"I'm sorry," he said, turning his face into her hair. "I'm so sorry."

Neither of them moved for what seemed like a long, long while. But eventually Felicity sighed, and pulled back to look at him. "You're going, aren't you?" she said, a flat statement of what she already knew.

Oliver nodded. "Malcolm wanted our attention — now he has it."

"In spades," Felicity agreed, her eyes suddenly sharp with focus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3x17 summed up in one word - sigh.
> 
> \- Didn't get as much of the Dyla wedding as I thought we were going to get, felt a little bait-and-switchy. Fuckboy Palmer ruined the wedding, as far as I'm concerned.
> 
> \- RAY — JUST — *incoherent gargling* — OKAY? STOP BEING SUCH AN ASS. Guys, seriously, by the halfway mark in 3x17 (him and Laurel in the police station) I wanted him SO goddamn dead. I am so sorry for inflicting such a godawful character on you, and I sinceriously wish I could kill him off. If he didn't play a bigger role in the plot I have planned, the blaster thingy on his stupid suit would be backfiring so hard that he'd be smooshed into a new universe. I'm not kidding, I want him dead so badly now.
> 
> \- Can't believe Laurel was actually one of the highlights of the episode. That hasn't happened since season 1.
> 
> \- How in holy hell do you kill Deadshot. WHY?!
> 
> BTW, wrote 17 while I was 20,000 ft in the air, on a long flight back to Beijing. The air here is toxic, and my nails are painted Arrow-suit green, so go writing because thanks to the zealous work of the Chinese government in keeping the air livable (not), I have a legitimate health reason not to leave the house. Cheers.


	18. Very Non-Platonic Circumstances

Oliver's phone sat on the table in front of Felicity, currently the focus of a GPS onslaught intending to trace Selena's message back to its source.

"Let me get this straight," said Roy, his eyebrows snapped together in a frown. "Malcolm Merlyn — mass murderer and assassin — shows up at your apartment and warns you not to take the meeting with Selena, and you're—"

"—taking the meeting with Selena," Oliver finished.

"Right." Roy nodded very sarcastically. "Because warnings seldom mean anything bad's about to happen. Like — _ever_."

Diggle watched Oliver very carefully. "A warning from Malcolm may mean more than you think, Oliver. He doesn't exactly make it his business to care about the well-being of anybody but himself."

"And Thea," Oliver added, quietly.

The four of them glanced at the staircase leading up to Verdant.

"I was with her last night," said Roy, sensing the general thought pattern. "Malcolm didn't show."

"So not _Father of the Year_ , then," said Felicity, unsurprised. "He's back in town on business for Pure Evil."

"What if it's reverse psychology?" Diggle asked. "What if Malcolm wants you to go? What if that reason involves you being _dead_?"

Oliver, to his credit, didn't even flinch. "I'm not that easy to kill."

Diggle made a sound of exasperation. "If you can even joke about this right now —"

"I'm not joking," said Oliver, with a kind of maddening calm that made Felicity want to shake him. "If the Bratva kills one of its own Captains for no reason — least of all someone who just came back from a meeting with Anatoly Knyazev himself — there will be repercussions, whoever this Selena is."

"We," said Felicity, "and by that I mean mostly Oliver — bet that whoever tried so hard to get Selena into the Bratva isn't going to want to piss Knyazev off by killing one of his favorites. So that just leaves blackmail and the possibility of extortion."

Oliver turned to look at her. "Not exactly the help I had in mind."

"Hey, for the record — I'm with Dig on this. As your fiancée and therefore someone with plans to eventually marry you — I am _not_ cool with you walking into a Russian mob base alone."

They stared at each other, neither willing to back down, until Oliver conceded — if only sightly. "Let's…cross that bridge when we get to it, all right?"

"Sooner than you think," Felicity said, very clear on Oliver-style discussion vetoes.

The tracker program pinged, announcing that it had zeroed in on the message sent (give or take) two minutes ago. Felicity leaned back in her chair, puffing out her breath. "Good news: it's the same location as the one specified in the message. I guess they decided to switch locations after you beat the last Captain senseless," she muttered. "Interesting-slash-bad news: it's a place called _Solaris_ — whatever that is, but it doesn't sound socially responsible. Or free of potential witnesses."

"It's an underground casino," said Roy, causing Oliver, Diggle and Felicity to all turn and give him questioning looks.

Roy shrugged. "My less…socially responsible days may have involved pickpocketing some of the fat cats coming out of the place. That place is for high rollers."

"Did those days come with a cast for a broken arm?" Felicity said, as her usually-nonexistent mothering instinct kicked in. "Because people who go to mob-run casinos generally aren't very amenable to being robbed by scrawny teenage boys in red hoodies."

Roy looked deeply offended at her choice of words. "Scrawny —"

Oliver cleared his throat. "Good, so we know the meeting's legitimate. I'll let you know how it goes," he said, clearly expecting it to be the end of the conversation.

Ha, not really.

"You're not going in there," said Diggle, representing pretty much what everyone (except Oliver) had been thinking. "Not alone."

Oliver glared at his friend. "Absolutely not. Diggle, you're not coming. It's too dangerous."

"That's what you said about Nanda Parbat, and look how that turned out. We handled it just fine." Diggle took a step towards Oliver, shaking his head. "You gotta stop shutting us out whenever you think there's a chance of danger — or this team is gonna stop being a team and turn into a way for you to risk your neck without any backup."

"I know that there's always a danger," Oliver answered, evenly. "But this is one of those times when _you_ shouldn't have to take that risk."

"You're right," said Felicity, and they all looked at her in surprise…until she spun in her chair to smile at Oliver. "You're not going in alone — because we're all coming with you."

* * *

Oliver felt his skin prickle in the night air, the cold as sharp as edged glass, as he turned back to the waiting van. "I don't like this," he said.

The doors slammed open, and Felicity climbed out with a clack of high shoes. Even in his mixed state of irritation and worry, Oliver still found himself stretching out a hand to help her down to the pavement.

"When I said 'let's check our comm links'," Felicity said, tugging on the hem of her dress, dark green and much shorter than he'd expected, "I was looking for something a little more conventional — like _testing-one-two-three_ , not unhelpful negativity."

A snort came from inside the van. Diggle was crouched beside Roy, adjusting his shoulder holster so that it wouldn't show. Unlike the latter, he was used to concealing a sidearm beneath a suit jacket. "If Oliver doesn't like the plan, it probably means we're doing something right," he said.

Oliver breathed out, very slowly. "Not helping, Diggle."

Roy flapped his arms, checking the range of motion allowed by the holster. "At least they relocated from the car shop. No power tools handy if they decide to interrogate us. I kind of like having knees."

"They don't need power tools," Oliver said, only half-listening as he checked the gun Diggle handed him.

"Cheerful."

" _Okay_." Felicity's earrings winked under the streetlights when she swung her head. "Before we start a mutiny, everyone remember that this is supposed to be a meeting of the talky-talk variety. So the nuclear option isn't actually an option unless they start shooting first. Which they probably won't, what with all the VIP guests standing around — I hope. I'm not exactly a staple on the guest list for these things."

Oliver slipped the gun into his belt. "Copy that." He looked at his friends — his partners — still surprised, somehow, that they were even here. That they weren't willing to listen to him, not on this.

Even in her shoes, Felicity had to stand on her toes to reach Oliver's ear. Her hand pressed on his shoulder for support as she whispered, "This is what a democracy feels like."

Oliver had to smile because as always, she knew what he was thinking. "Are you sure about this?" he asked, hoping for an answer that meant she'd be safely out of danger, inside the Foundry.

"Very." Felicity patted him on the arm. "Come on — we've got a hitwoman to meet."

* * *

The bartender slid a martini glass towards Felicity, the insides a vivid, icy blue and just barely brimming over the crystal rim. She took a sip and shuddered. "Martinis are really _not_ my thing," she said, into her glass.

"Felicity," said Oliver. She could hear the sound of slot machines from his side of the comms. " _Focus_."

"Right. Sorry." She glanced at her phone, holding a map of the casino floor. They were supposed to be looking for a computer hooked up to the mainframe, a terminal they could bug so that she could access the security cameras and hopefully get a facial recognition shot of Selena for later use. Unless Selena had taken a leaf out of Oliver's book and adopted some form of face-shielding, which probably wasn't conducive to casino-running.

Probably.

"Thirteen armed guards in the east zone," said Roy. "No computer."

Diggle's reply was punctuated by the sounds of happy gamblers at a card table. "Same here — except it's about fifteen guys who could give Special Forces a run for their money."

"Not a competition," Roy muttered.

It was amazing how Oliver could manage to silence someone over the comms, all with just a throat-clearing. "Keep looking. Twenty minutes to the meet."

Ah, she'd missed this. Team Arrow pulling covert shenanigans in plain sight, faced with unfortunate complications and the threat of armed violence by some truly scary people. Felicity tried not to yank on her earrings (ow) as she thought about how to hack without a computer — a brain-aching problem, even to her — when her eyes alighted on the register behind the bar. Bingo.

"Uh, guys?" she said. "I think I have an idea. But I'm going to need some help."

* * *

Oliver was mildly apprehensive (more than he'd been since the beginning of the evening, anyway) as he searched for Felicity at the bar. It was busy, but not troublingly so, and he found her in seconds. She was perched on one of the high stools with her legs crossed at the knee, her hair cascading in thick waves down one shoulder, utterly oblivious to the fact that she was ill-suited for the role of an inconspicuous casino patron. It was a lucky coincidence they weren't pretending to be strangers, or Oliver would have had a more challenging time than he envisaged.

She started when Oliver touched her back, exposed by the dip of her dress. "Hey," he said. "Everything all right?"

Felicity leaned her elbow on the slick bar top, indicating with her eyes where she wanted him to look — past her arm and behind the bar at the sleek black register. "See that?" she said, barely moving her lips for some reason. "Computer. Bug. Not sneaky enough. People watching."

Oliver tried not to find her attempt at covertness too amusing as he leaned close, torn between an absurd urge to laugh at her earnestness and the very real compulsion to tip her head back and kiss her.

"Felicity," he said, in a low voice, a lover's murmur, "if you're not going to use codewords you might as well just speak in full sentences. There's no one within eavesdropping distance anyway."

Felicity choked on her drink. "Like I was saying," she coughed, patting her chest. "The machine should be connected to the mainframe, but my light-fingered prowess is…well…non-existent."

Oliver nodded, already thinking of what was going to do. "Which is where I come in."

Felicity looked over his shoulder and smiled. "Exactly."

The bartender appeared, glass in hand. "Your vodka martini, sir," he said, sliding a glass towards Oliver. "Shaken, not stirred, as requested." He smiled at them both. "Enjoy your evening."

Felicity put a hand over her mouth in response to Oliver's questioning look. "Couldn't resist," she said, laughing. "Cisco would cry if he saw this."

Oliver would never have admitted it, but with a friend like Barry it was hard not to get the reference, much less forget that the fastest man alive idolized an elderly British inventor and had a secret crush on a fictional secretary. Oliver took a sip of the drink to humor her, keeping a straight face as he did. Ice-cold and very dry. He made a face. "Not my type of drink."

"Oh, I know." Felicity tapped the rim of her glass against his. "Nothing against vodka shots in the secret basement of a nightclub, but I had to see this for myself. You still have the bug I gave you, right?" She wiggled her fingers. "Bug away."

Oliver subtly shifted his position so that his side was pressing against the bar and hid the fact that there was a bug pinched between his fingers. There were many different ways he could have created a distraction — there was even a decent chance that he could have slipped it onto the register based on sleight of hand alone.

But he wanted to do this.

Felicity's eyes widened slightly when he stroked her cheek with his thumb, his hand sliding to the back of her neck. "What are you —?"

"Play along," he murmured, as leaned across the narrow distance to kiss her.

Their lips met with an inebriating shudder, a rush of breath that wasn't feigned, not at all. Even in surprise, Felicity's mouth parted naturally under his, and Oliver tasted the thick sweetness of the drink on her tongue, the rush of familiarity when she made a soft noise at the back of her throat, one that usually meant she was breathless for air —

They parted, but didn't move away, as if they were still eager to learn each other, as if they were new lovers caught by the electrifying promise of another kiss.

Oliver watched her mouth, her lower lip as full and as red as a siren's, and he knew that anyone watching would have believed it — that he would have kissed her because she was an impossibly beautiful woman sitting alone at a bar, a temptation too heady to resist.

To a large extent, that was true.

But —

"Did you…?" Felicity whispered, her lips just barely — barely — brushing his.

Oliver nodded. "Done," he said, and kissed her again.

* * *

"Frack." Felicity rubbed the sore spot on her back, very recently poked by the edge of a gilded bathroom mirror. She backed into the wall to give Oliver more room in the confined space — the disabled toilet in an underground casino, to be precise — as he stepped inside behind her and locked the door with a snap.

Felicity felt oddly bereft without her computer. She'd always wondered if there was a reason why evening clutches didn't come in computer-friendly sizes — maybe they were worried about bathroom-lurking hackers like her wrecking havoc in black-tie settings. Or aesthetics — probably aesthetics. Yeesh, she was already going off-topic, and Oliver (plus the brief glimpse of Oliver's suspenders) were to blame. He was basically a showcase for how obscenely good custom tailoring could look on a man (inhuman specimen, but still).

"Can you get a signal in here?" Oliver asked, producing her tablet from a hidden pocket in his jacket.

Felicity made a noise of the _yeah-right_ variety. If she could get a signal inside a Tibetan underground city, she could get signal in a standard-issue bathroom, of all places.

"You know, when I imagined locking us inside a bathroom — it was under very different circumstances," Felicity said, perched on the sink with her tablet in her lap. " _Very_ different, non-platonic circumstances. Of the airplane variety."

"Felicity." Oliver's arms were folded in front of his chest. "Hack."

So they were in strictly mission mode, then. Felicity's eyes darted across the lines of scrolling code — incomprehensible to anyone except her — and she flexed her fingers without thinking.

Then she began to work.

It was effortless, it was second nature, it was —

"I'm in."

Completely, and utterly _hers._

* * *

"Not trying your luck at the tables?" Oliver asked, standing in the shadow of a column.

Diggle looked around, flashing him a look that was part cynical, part amused. "You're not the first rich boy I worked for, Oliver." He shook his head, watching the glittering crowd whoop and _ah_ in the opulent chaos of the casino floor. "You'd be surprised how much people with money enjoy throwing it away."

"You know I wouldn't," Oliver said, and they exchanged smiles of mutual understanding.

Diggle was secretly surprised to find Oliver without Felicity. Given the general trend of their undercover missions, he'd expected Oliver to be shadowing her every step of the way — which left only one alternative. "Felicity sent you back out?" he guessed.

Oliver inclined his head. "She said I was _distracting_ her," he said, with a smile that indicated his mind was elsewhere.

Diggle chuckled. "Based off experience, the two of you work just fine as long as there's twelve yards of space to cool off."

Oliver's expression was agreement enough. They stood in peaceable silence for a while, both on the lookout but pretending not to be, waiting for the word of a certain blonde IT genius. Since Diggle had started working with Felicity, it was impossible not to notice the sheer number of surveillance cameras in any given location, even in a mob-run establishment where presumably the worst thing you could possibly be was a witness.

"Three minutes," Oliver murmured, scanning the floor with a steady gaze. Still no sign of Selena.

"Have you thought about what you'll do?" Diggle asked. "When you eventually meet this Selena? I'm guessing the Bratva aren't exactly free and easy with the truth."

Oliver slipped his hands into his pockets, nonchalant to the last. "I suppose I'll have to ask her nicely."

"Guys?" Felicity's side of the comms abruptly clicked to life, and they both looked up, at the ready. "I think I found her."

* * *

Oliver sidestepped an inebriated casino patron on his way towards the lounge, taking in every detail of his surroundings as if his life depended on it.

"Wait — wait, you think you've found Selena based on _what_?" Diggle said, on the off-chance that he'd heard wrong.

"The Bratva tattoo," Felicity explained, patiently. "Since we don't have a face, I ran Oliver's tattoo through the system — and _boom_. Facial recognition picked up a woman with a Bratva tattoo in the lounge. Third seat at the bar, black dress, red hair, tattoo at the back of her neck — which sounds highly painful, if you ask me. Might be your Selena, but you'll have to ask _."_

"Copy that." Oliver smoothed down the front of his jacket as he approached the bar, where he'd kissed her not an hour ago. "Thank you, Felicity."

"Be careful," she said.

"I will — I'll see you soon."

"See you soon."

Oliver saw her now, a sinuously graceful figure seated apart from the other patrons, in a black dress that glinted with brass studs, hair like fire waving down her back. Her dress was cut daringly — tauntingly low, very nearly to the base of her spine. All this wouldn't have set her apart — except for the fact that she'd swept her hair in front of one shoulder — baring the many-spoked star of the Bratva tattoo at the back of her neck.

An odd spot to have marked, just below the hairline, the design blurred somewhat by the natural protrusion of the bones in her neck. Brittle — dangerous — and she wore it with pride.

Oliver didn't take his eyes off the tattoo as he advanced. Five paces — four paces — three paces —

"You certainly don't disappoint, do you?" she said, without turning. Flawless Russian, enunciated with a kind of razor precision not unlike his own. "Aren't you happy to see me again?"

There was something familiar — yet alien — about the voice. Oliver should have remembered it, but for some unknown reason it was like a sound repeated and warped too many times to tell what it had originally been, and he didn't recognize it.

"I'm sorry — but have we met?" he asked, warily.

A ripple of laughter, low in her throat. The fiery mane of hair shifted when she did, and slowly, as the memories of a past lifetime flashed before his eyes — Oliver knew her.

_And when that time comes, it will be a future where nobody, and nothing, will ever be the same again._

Oliver took a step back. "Sandra?" he said, in a voice hoarse with shock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeey. So as you've probably guessed, I'm doing the Sandra Hawke storyline (among others), and it's pretty obvious that Sandra's a little/a lot different from the way she is on the show (not that the woman on the show is necessarily Sandra, for all you know the kid could be a girl instead of Connor Hawke). But anyway, the reason why she's so different will probably become clear at some point in the story.
> 
> I've just realized that this fic has had an ABUNDANCE of "surprise bitch, bet you thought you'd seen the last of me" moments, especially in the last two chapters. So sorry about that. Fun fact: Moonday is supposed to be Sandra's middle name, but Moonday as an alias would have been (O.O) so I went with Selena. Whoops.
> 
> AND LASTLY - WHO ELSE SAW THAT PICTURE OF OLIVER QUEEN IN LEAGUE ROBES AND GOT VERY HAPPY? I think they're filming episode 21 right now and for some reason he's with Barry and Firestorm facing the Reverse Flash (eh). But yeah, Oliver in League robes makes me happy (even though the reason why he's wearing them won't be). I really should stop looking at Tumblr spoilers, they just kill me.


	19. Sandra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Completely forgot I didn't update in tandem with FF. Whoops.

Sandra raised her glass for a sip. "You look good, Oliver," she said, utterly unfazed by his speechlessness. "I'd order your usual, but if we're going to talk business I don't think fifty shots of tequila are the way to go."

Oliver found that he didn't — and couldn't — know what to say. Two irreconcilable worlds were colliding in front of him. The Sandra he remembered belonged to the same world as the Oliver who'd died on the island, but the Sandra sitting in front of him — her face harder, more edged than it used to be — was undoubtedly part of the vigilante's world, the one of dark alleyways and darker dangers lurking beneath the facade of a city on the mend.

She swept a red curl behind her ear. "Sit, Oliver. Please."

Oliver sank into a chair, a hand over his mouth as he tried to process — _this_. The woman sitting in front of him had lost the girlish softness in her features, a wide-eyed smile replaced by the dark, penetrating gaze of a trained killer and a hard smile wielded as a weapon. In his mind's eye he still remembered the young woman — the girl — who'd laughed with the careless, selfish boy who lived like there was nothing to lose, in a golden world where consequences could never touch him — because they didn't exist, not for someone who'd never known a time when things hadn't gone his way.

Even the child that neither of them had wanted — gone, in a horrible, fortuitous coincidence.

Oliver laid his hand flat on the slick marble surface and tried not to think about the ground creaking beneath his feet.

"Why are you here?" he asked, without looking at her. "Why are you — _Selena_?"

Sandra made a little moue with her mouth, obliterated by deep purple lipstick as vivid as a bruise. "Now _that's_ a loaded question. For starters, Moonday is a _little_ hard to take seriously, even if it is my middle name. Then again, if you've chalked up the kind of record I have…I'd be a little insulted if all people were looking at was just the name, because aren't we all _so_ much more than our names — Oliver?" Sandra cocked her head to the side with feline slyness. "Or is it _Arrow_ , now?"

Oliver felt the air sharpen as he lifted his head to stare at Sandra. "Not here," he said, softly, dangerously.

Sandra smirked. "You know about me — I know about you. It's only fair, Oliver. If you want to play the name game and rack up your chips in secrets, you'll have to make your peace with those secrets being used against you."

"Sandra, this isn't you," said Oliver. "I know — I know I made mistakes — and I have no right to judge, but I remember you. I know you. The Sandra Hawke I met in college would never have killed people on contract…or fallen in with the Russian mob. What happened? Why —"

"— _fallen in_." Sandra shook her head and dabbed at her dark lips with a napkin. "Interesting choice of words — because you don't believe that the Sandra you knew could _ever_ do something as — let's say daring — as joining the Bratva. You don't believe that she could have blood on her hands, that she could have _fought_ for her place in the world." She set her glass down with a crack. "Because you still think that I'm the girl you _screwed_ eight years ago. The mistake you could just sweep under the rug and never think of again." Sandra's face twisted with savage amusement. "The Queen family tradition, I guess. That — and being a good screw, if the rumors are anything to go by."

"Fine," said Oliver. "You're angry with me. I deserve that. But you don't understand the people you're getting into bed with — you don't know them the way I do. Whatever it is — drugs, money — I can help you. But you have to leave, now. Don't live this — _life_. It chips away at you, at your soul. You were always better than that."

For an instant, Oliver saw something in her eyes. A sudden clarity, like her vision had been obscured by fog, and only then was she truly seeing the world in front of her.

"No," Sandra said. Her hand hovered at the side of her face before traveling unsteadily towards her neck. Oliver watched as she dug her fingers into the site of her Bratva tattoo. "No," she murmured again to herself.

"Sandra —" Oliver reached for her, and she recoiled, sweeping her arm across the bar and upsetting at her half-empty glass. The delicate rim crashed into the solid marble bar top and shattered into a dozen pieces.

The effect was instantaneous. The other patrons gave soft gasps of shock, a flurry of movement and attention focused on the unexpected occurrence. Oliver looked up from a fresh cut on the back of his hand to find that his brief second of hesitation had been enough — enough for Sandra to revert back to the stranger he no longer knew.

Sandra widened her eyes in innocent surprise, her face as expressive and fluid as a born actress's. Drawn by her distress — however feigned — the bartender was already hastening towards them with a cloth, and Oliver schooled his expression into something more innocuous while he mopped up the shattered fragments.

"And what was that meant to accomplish?" he asked, after the bartender had gone and they were alone again.

"To prove a point." Sandra shifted her hand, the one that had been hidden in her lap. It was the stem of the glass, spiked with the jagged edges of a broken whole, glittering in her palm with the deadliness of a drawn blade.

"I could end you right now, you know," she said, toying with the shard. "In front of all these people, all these witnesses, and there will be nothing that anyone will be able to do, because I am _not_ the Sandra Hawke you knew." Oliver watched her face darken with an unspoken emotion, her knuckles whiten around her makeshift weapon. "I made a choice," she said, flatly. "A choice not to be weak, ever again."

"And does that choice involve the assassinations of innocent people?" Oliver asked, very quietly.

Sandra smiled sweetly at the bartender and accepted a fresh drink with thanks.

"I arranged this meeting for your own good, Oliver. To make things clear." Despite the smile, her eyes were still as hard as flint. "You'll find that the Bratva won't have a hand in the assassinations you're so concerned about, but that is the _only_ information I'll be volunteering. From now on, you stay out of my business, and I'll stay out of yours."

"And if I don't?" Oliver asked, flatly. "What if the vigilante goes to the police and…volunteers the information about the Bratva's involvement in a series of attempted assassinations?"

Sandra's mouth twitched in a faint smile. "I think we both know you won't do that. A man who wears a mask fears the truth, no question about that. He prefers to shroud himself in secrets and shadows, because maybe he can't face the truth that there's nothing beyond the mask, that living a life of _lies_ is all he knows, and will ever know. Granted, I'd be doing you a favor by telling the world about Oliver Queen —" She shot him a coy look. "But I think that's a conclusion you should reach all by your lonesome, don't you?"

"You don't know me," Oliver said. "Not anymore."

Sandra raised her glass in a sarcastic toast. "Likewise, baby." She drained her glass and stood, smoothing the creases in her dress with deliberate slowness. "Now, I think we've achieved an understanding, don't you?"

"I wouldn't call blackmail an understanding," Oliver said, wryly.

Sandra laughed, a low, seductive ripple. It was so unlike her that it made his skin crawl. "Careful with those claws, baby. The things you break have a nasty way of coming back to bite."

"Believe me," Oliver said, meaning it, "I know."

Sandra sighed, as if he was becoming tiresome. "Think about it, Oliver. Once I realized what I'd do to make sure I'd never be broken again, things got much, _much_ more fun."

He stiffened when she suddenly leaned close, her voice in his ear. " _Because the truth will set you free_ ," she whispered.

* * *

"So your ex-girlfriend, who you cheated on Laurel with and never spoke to again, is now back in Starling City…as a Captain in the Bratva — _ow — what_?"

Thea had sunk her elbow into Roy's ribs. Felicity shook her head in response to Thea's concerned glance, and they both turned towards Oliver. He was pummeling one of the wooden training dummies like it was a matter of life and death, with the kind of ferocity that made her wince.

"Ollie, maybe you should…take a break. Get some air." Thea had never looked as uncertain as she did then, confused by the outward show of calm. She didn't know as well as they did how it had to be a facade — Oliver's classic response to news that was by definition hard to swallow.

Something furry and warm bumped against Felicity's leg, and she looked down to find Felix butting his head against her shin. She scratched behind his ears and thought about what to say to Oliver — _when_ to talk to Oliver.

The punching abruptly stopped, and Oliver looked at them, one hand resting on the dummy. "Sandra promised that the Bratva won't be involved in any assassinations. We have that, at least."

"But she knows, Oliver. She knows about the Arrow." Diggle had put his finger on the crux of the issue, the fact that Sandra Hawke knew about Oliver — somehow — and she'd threatened to use that information against him.

Which put them between a rock and a hard place, as far as investigating her was concerned.

Felicity stared at their only good picture of Sandra, newly introduced into their database of crazies and psychos. (Status: pending) She was beautiful — no doubt about that. Wide dark eyes, gorgeous red hair framing a delicate heart-shaped face…it was hard to see how she could be the head of the local mob branch.

Not so hard to see how she would have gotten Oliver's attention, eight years ago. Or, given the general trend of his past romantic involvements, that she had turned out…so homicidally dangerous. A part of Felicity was beginning to wonder if she needed to invest in a straitjacket, just in case.

"Sandra knows," Oliver had gone back to punching the dummy. "But she won't go to the police. She could have gone to the police a thousand times before she met me tonight. I know her — she won't go for the nuclear option unless I leave her no choice."

"Are we assuming that she's a rational player?" Diggle asked. "You said that she was a completely different person nine years ago. Maybe reason isn't exactly what she's known for these days."

Oliver shook his head, sweat flying from his skin. "I _saw_ something tonight. It was just for a second, but there's something going on — there's a reason why she's not herself. Maybe she's angry. But Sandra isn't playing the woman-scorned card. She wants power — she's enjoying her position in the Bratva. She won't risk that by antagonizing us."

"And what about the investigation?" Diggle's voice was flat. "What if it turns out that she knew about Andy?"

Oliver's punches became painfully loud in the sudden silence that descended, and Felicity willed Oliver to stop. To look at his best friend, if only for a minute. Diggle deserved to be looked in the eye for this, at least, not hit with another one of Oliver's evasive maneuvers.

"Oliver," she said, softly, and he did.

"We know she was active up until two years ago," Oliver said, breathing heavily. "That means she can't have been involved with Andy's death. I'm sorry, John."

Diggle nodded, and looked around the Foundry with a low sigh. "Back to square one."

"I'm sorry," Oliver said, again.

"No." Diggle gripped his shoulder, giving him a gentle shake. "We know what we know."

For a moment, Oliver seemed like he was about to say something more. But he shook his head and let his friend go. Felicity was out of her chair in a heartbeat, following Diggle up the staircase. "John — stay," she said, practically jogging to keep up with his longer stride.

Diggle shook his head. "I'm fine, Felicity. Really. I need to pick Sara up from the babysitter." He smiled, and reminded her how much Team Arrow needed lessons in poker faces. "Life goes on."

"I really wish that sounded more convincing," Felicity said, as Diggle pushed through the doors at the top of the staircase.

They emerged into the steam-washed alley behind Verdant, anonymous in the darkness and chilled by the indiscriminate cold. Just ahead of her, Felicity felt Diggle stop short, heard the small breath he took as he fought to regain his composure, his hands pressed to his eyes.

Without a word, Felicity stood on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around him. "It's going to be okay," she murmured, moving her hand in slow, comforting circles behind his back. "No one's giving up — not by a long shot."

Even though she meant it, she knew that it was impossible to promise anything, not now, not when they were back to square one, with more confusion and secrets and threats looming over them than ever.

Diggle nodded, and he sighed again, heavily. "Thank you, Felicity."

Felicity slipped her arm into his as they walked slowly to his car. "Anytime."

"You're okay?" he said. He didn't have to specify the _what_.

Felicity shoved her hands deep into her coat pockets. "With another one of Oliver's ex-girlfriends joining the ranks of People Who Hate Team Arrow?" she answered, half-jokingly. "I _really_ should have done my research about what I was marrying into."

Diggle made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh, but on the way there. Her specialty — making friends laugh with the tragic, and very real, truth.

"You know I'm only worried about Oliver. Even if we're — _together_ — you know that I've always worried about Oliver before anything else."

"I know I'm speaking as a divorcee here," Diggle said. "But if the two of you are going to build a marriage together, sometimes you have to think about the collective unit. Whatever it is — even if it's something you think you shouldn't be worrying about — you have to start taking things as a team, or you'll find yourselves fighting a war alone, or worse: that you're on opposite sides of the same fight."

Felicity bumped her head against his shoulder affectionately. "Sagely advice received," she said. "I'll talk to him."

Diggle squeezed her hand reassuringly. "We both know he always listens to you."

Felicity smiled and waved as he got into his car. She stayed that way long after the taillights had melted away into the darkness, her hand raised and open in front of her.

A long, deep breath. "Okay," she said, only to herself.

* * *

Oliver lifted his head from his hands at the sound of her footsteps — not realizing he'd been listening for her until that moment. Felicity stood at the foot of the steps, one hand still resting on the banister, the other in the pocket of her coat. Her mouth was slightly open and her cheeks were flushed from the cold, but she didn't speak.

For a moment, neither of them did — not even when their eyes met with a shiver of something ephemeral. But they didn't have to. They always broached the subject. With them, it was just a matter of time.

Felicity's gaze drifted to his hand, and Oliver remembered — dimly — that he'd forgotten to bandage the cut, and in the subsequent sparring he'd tried to lose himself in, it was open and bleeding again.

Oliver watched silently as Felicity opened the cabinet drawers one by one, picking up supplies as she went.

"Where's Thea?" she asked, draping her coat across the back of her chair before pulling it over to where Oliver sat by the worktables.

"The club," he said. The thought of his sister sent a small shudder of guilt-tinged pain into his skull. He shut his eyes, a hand braced against his forehead. "They had to take over — Roy…went with her."

"Good." Felicity took his hand in hers, laying it flat on her knee as she started to clean the wound. Her touch was gentle, methodical, built up from the countless times she'd treated his injuries before he could, knowing full well that he had a tendency to let the smaller hurts slide.

"Thank you," he said, tracing slow circles on her knee with his thumb.

Felicity looked up at him over a bottle of isopropyl alcohol. "Don't thank me yet," she said, lightly. "Now hold still."

Oliver found himself watching the floor, sliding out of focus as his thoughts — his worries — slipped into the same, pointless circles, like a feral animal pacing inside the confines of its cage.

The rattle of the first aid kit made Oliver look up. Felicity had a roll of sterile bandages in her hand, a pair of scissors in the other. "I already know the answer to this, but —" Felicity's stare was frank, her expression all concern. "Are you all right?"

"You know I don't deserve to be asked that," Oliver said, with a faint, humorless smile. "Not after what I've done."

Felicity nodded in silent understanding as she began to wind the strip around his hand. "Okay, not telling her that you already had a girlfriend was bad, and never calling her again was worse, but it doesn't mean you should punish yourself —"

"Felicity —" Oliver covered his face with his free hand, nearly doubled over from the struggle, between the half-formed thought in his mind and his instinctive fear of telling her.

Even though he wasn't sure, Oliver felt his throat tighten, as if his body wanted to stop him from telling Felicity the truth. As if it knew — instinctively — what it would do. What it could do.

_The truth will set you free._

But at what cost? His instincts had never been to lie to Felicity, and that was the worst part — feeling the two sides of himself grapple with each other, two dual urges fighting for dominance.

Oliver was tired of being torn apart. He was tired of fighting against himself, when she had always been the one he'd never had to hide from.

Not as a killer, not as a murderer, not as a damaged whole.

Never from Felicity.

"— it was her." Oliver stared at Felicity, his eyes not leaving hers, willing her to understand, trusting that she would. "The girl — the one I cheated on Laurel with — the one who told me she was pregnant — it was Sandra."

Felicity didn't say anything, but her hands had gone still, and she was looking at the floor.

"Sandra told me she was pregnant when I was twenty-two years old, and not ready to be a father. Tonight, she told me that she chose her life — the one with the Bratva — because she didn't want to be weak. Because nine years ago, I broke her. I drove her into this life. My mistake — my fault."

"Oliver." Felicity was shaking her head, but Oliver turned away. To look anywhere — anywhere but her. "Hey — _hey_." Her chair rolled away when she crouched in front of his lowered face, her hands on his knees as she looked up at him, utterly trusting, utterly devoid of hate.

"Oliver — you don't know that this was your fault. People make choices for a _lot_ of reasons. Yes, you hurt Sandra, and _believe_ me — female solidarity demands that I should be disemboweling you right about now. But that was nine years ago. You've been through… _hell_ since then." Felicity's hands were on his face, anchoring him with her touch. Oliver wrenched his gaze up to hers, and she shook him, gently.

"Even if she wants to punish Oliver Queen — even if she deserves to — the Oliver she knew doesn't exist anymore. He died on that island, and who you are today…he doesn't deserve to suffer. I know you, Oliver. Don't punish yourself for this."

Oliver didn't say a word, not when he lifted Felicity's hands from his face and kissed her fingertips, the small bumps of her knuckles, the curves of her wrists. A _thank you_ expressed in the truest way he could manage.

"Hey," she said, looking up at him. "I still want to marry you, you know."

In spite of everything, Oliver felt himself smile, slowly but surely. There were still consequences to face, repercussions waiting for him down the line. But he silently thanked fate — fortune — coincidence — for the existence of Felicity Smoak, as he bent his head to their clasped hands with a low, shuddering sigh, the two of them alone in the silence of the Foundry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3x18 was a lot less painless than I thought. Probably because Ray got an arrow through his chest within the first ten seconds of the episode. Raylicity is on the fritz. YAAAS.
> 
> I'm training myself to have ZERO expectations for Arrow episodes. It just makes everything seem better when Olicity has one of their moments.


	20. Proposal

Whoever decided that an already-perfectly-perfect penthouse apartment needed a skylight in the bedroom deserved a good bout of sleep deprivation.

"Felicity." From the general direction of Oliver's voice, it sounded like he was sitting up in bed. Awake. And very alert.

She groaned and turned her face back into the pillow. "Too. Soon."

Oliver's voice was at her ear now. "Wake up," he said. "I need to give you something."

Love, Felicity decided, was taking Oliver's homicidal ex-girlfriends in stride and accepting his unfortunate defect of waking up inhumanly early.

"Your double entendres really need some work," she said, rolling grumpily onto her side to face him. "What is it?"

Oliver looked down at his hands, resting in his lap. Intrigued, Felicity blinked the sleep from her eyes and propped an elbow underneath her head. There was something in his hands all right, small enough to be swallowed in his grip.

"Oliver, what's going on?"

Oliver shifted in response to her question, and Felicity caught a glimpse of metal between his forefinger and thumb, a narrow band that reflected the sun in a curve of light.

It belatedly dawned on her, what Oliver was holding in his hands, what he was about to ask her.

_A ring._

Wordlessly, she lifted her head and stared at him.

"Felicity," he said, "will you marry me?"

* * *

"Did I miss something?" Felicity pushed herself off the pillows, sitting opposite Oliver with her bare legs curled beneath her. "I thought we'd established that the answer was — and still is, by the way — _yes_."

Oliver, utterly unlike the last time he'd proposed, looked like he'd forgotten how to crack a smile. Which was a surprisingly sobering picture, even though in the light of day. "After last night, I wanted to make sure — to give you a chance — I mean…" He hesitated. "I thought I'd give you a chance to back out, if that's what you wanted."

"Oliver." It was Felicity's turn to be serious — well, as serious as she could be, wearing one of his old button-downs and no pants. "You know I meant what I said. Sandra's not the first ex-girlfriend to pop up in Starling City, and unlike certain individuals I could name, she seems to have _no_ interest in tying me up and/or killing me slowly and painfully — Isabel's words, not mine."

"But she's a part of my past, and you've seen how my past has a way of coming back to haunt me — to haunt the city. I just — I don't want to force it on you, I don't want my mistakes to drag you down with me. Sandra's the way she is today — a completely different person — because of me. I broke her. That's what I do. I break people, I hurt them, past the point of no return. I just didn't realize it — I didn't accept it — until last night."

"Everybody makes mistakes, Oliver." Felicity reached up to hold him, her hand at the back of his neck as she shook him, gently. "Yes, your backstory has an unfortunate tendency to bite you in the behind, but what you've done every time — to make sure nobody in the city has to suffer — the way you've fought to try and correct those mistakes…it goes above and beyond anything a normal person should have to do. It's what a hero does. The hero I believe you are. When are you going to start believing that too?"

Oliver shut his eyes, and when he opened them she saw the cracks in his heart. "My father. My best friend. My mother. My sister," he recited, a by-no-means-exhausted litany of people he'd loved and lost, the ones he cherished and had to see hurt. "You."

Oliver cupped her face in his broad hands, and Felicity felt the cool touch of the ring against her cheek. "I can't hurt you, I can't lose you," he said. "But it could happen. Any moment, any second...it could be the last. Because of what we do…there's only so many ways it can end. With everything that's happened — that's _going_ to happen — I need you to be sure."

"Oliver Queen." Felicity felt the ring slip away from them and disappear into the folds of the sheets as she reared up, her hands on his shoulders. She pushed him down onto the bed and pinned him there with the weight of her body. The sun shone down on them both, filtering through her hair in scattered sprays of diffuse gold, turning the blue in Oliver's eyes to the intense blaze of a summer sky.

There was so much light in him already. Felicity was reminded of that, just by looking into his eyes. He held within him the boundless blue skies of a new day, the kind of light that could weather unspeakable darkness and unbearable loss — a light he didn't seem to know he had. Everyone kept saying that she was his light (roughly paraphrased from the motley crew of super-villains they'd faced over the years), as if she was some kind of lantern for Oliver's darkness.

But Felicity had another theory, one she'd built up from her time with Oliver, before they'd even become more than just friends. Her theory was that Oliver already had a light inside of him, the same light that had helped him survive those unspeakable five years and the three since then, a light whose existence was fearlessly independent of anything she could ever do, or ever be.

He just needed a little push every once in a while (once a week, if she was lucky), to be reminded that it was there. Wedding vows were all about love and faith and forever and evers. Screw the clichés. They'd already done all that without rings on their fingers. The vow Felicity wanted to make, right this second, was to make sure that Oliver Queen remembered the light inside of himself. As simple as that.

Felicity took a breath, willing herself not to screw this speech up.

"You're right," she said, fiercely. "We can't choose how it ends. We can't control what happens out there, in the field, or anywhere else. But we _are_ free to choose is the people we want with us every step of the way. So that _if_ it ends, however it ends, there will be no regrets. No. Regrets. I want you beside me. Friend, partner, husband. That's what I want, in sickness and in health and whatever crazy thing destiny throws our way. As long as you're with me, I'm sure. So, Oliver Queen — will you marry me?"

Sprawled beneath her on the mattress, Oliver looked up at her with a — frankly, quite flattering — mixture of disbelief and wonder, like he hadn't expected things to turn out this way. At all. His bright blue eyes searched her face, as if he was looking for a sign that she wasn't sure, that she didn't mean it.

But Felicity did, every word of it.

And (again) if the snide comments she'd gotten from every bad guy were anything to go by, she was absolutely terrible at not letting things show on her face.

So while it was a surprise that Oliver took so long to reach his conclusion, it wasn't a surprise when he lifted his head and kissed her full on the mouth. Felicity closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back as the sunlight blazed on strong.

It was a long, _long_ while later before Oliver said (a little unnecessarily, given their state of physical entanglement):

"Yes."

* * *

"You know, when I imagined proposing to a guy," said Felicity, buttoning up the front of Oliver's old shirt, "the scavenger hunt was _not_ a part of it."

Oliver laughed, straightening up with the pillows in his hands. They were looking for the ring, after her (debatably) unwise decision to let it out of her sight. Then again, it'd been to remind Oliver not to be an idiot, so the jury was still out on that one.

Felicity lifted the corner of a trailing sheet to look under the bed. "Full disclosure, if you do actually marry me, there's gonna be a lot more of this. Like, a lot. I'm a klutz and I tend to lose things, even small and very shiny things."

"So put it on a chain and wear it around your neck," Oliver suggested, with a straight face.

Felicity threw a pillow at him. "Not funny," she said, even though she was relieved to see that Oliver had gotten some of his old humor back — which was to say, not much.

She sat back on her heels and slapped the mattress, searching the floor around her for a ring. "Should we get a flashlight — _a-ha_."

Given that it was them, Felicity shouldn't have been surprised to find the ring in an improbably bizarre location, much less an acrobatic few feet shy of the bed. Just thinking about how it had gotten there made her cheeks feel uncomfortably warm.

Felicity rolled it between her fingers, curious at the metal it was made of. She didn't pretend to be an expert in jewelry (the whole thing with the Dearden necklace had proved just how uneducated she was in that area), but the ring looked more gray than silver, the dreamy color of mist rising off a lake at dawn.

The metal had a fascinating way of catching the light, absorbing it more than reflecting, subtle instead of garish.

Beautiful.

"I pronounce this proposal saved," she said, triumphantly hopping onto the mattress with the ring. The surface swayed beneath her bare feet and she laughed, holding her arms out by her side for balance.

"Arrowheads," he said, as if he could tell that she'd been wondering.

"What — _Oo_ ," Felicity staggered when Oliver climbed onto the bed as well, but he caught her before she tipped over, his hands steady on her waist. "Arrowheads?" she said, incredulously. "You _made_ this?"

Oliver smiled and pulled her closer, resting his forehead against hers. "It felt right," he said.

Felicity crossed her arms behind his neck, swaying from side to side like they were dancing. "Archery and jewelry-making…always full of surprises," she laughed, and stood on tiptoes to kiss him.

Oliver's kiss was unhurried and easy and sweet, not in celebration of anything groundbreaking (Felicity was only beginning to realize how long the idea of spending their lives together had been a given, even before the proposal), but in quiet recognition of a private happiness, another moment just for them.

A ring made from arrowheads. Unconventional, but carrying more meaning than a diamond ring could ever hold. Arrows were as much a part of Oliver as his mask and general broodiness, and the fact that he'd thought to make a ring — a wedding ring — from them...

It was him entrusting her with a part of his soul.

"So the question is," she said, against his mouth. "Do I have to put it on myself?"

The sunlight pooled around them, their own little world of promises and hopes. _And love_ , Felicity thought, as Oliver took the ring from her and balanced her hand in his open palm.

"Always love," she murmured.

Oliver looked up at her. "Are you sure?" he asked, one last time.

"I'm sure," she repeated, and he slipped the ring onto the fourth finger of her left hand.

* * *

There was a ring on her finger. Felicity knew the rom-com scenario: how she was supposed to be staring fondly at her new engagement ring under some kind of flattering light, or be breathily _amazed_ at how heavy her hand felt now that she was officially "engaged".

Maybe it was harder to be rom-com-appropriate with a ring made from repurposed titanium arrowheads.

"Morning, Gerry," she said, resolutely _not_ thinking of wedding rings as she swung by his desk to pick up her messages.

"Good morning, Miss Smoak!" Gerry practically fell out of his chair in his haste to get up, and put down his carrier mug of coffee at the same time. "Mr. Palmer asked to see you — immediately. He said you weren't answering your phone."

Felicity patted her coat pockets. Sure enough, she'd turned her phone off. Maybe that was her version of a side-effect. "Huh," she said, as she powered it back up. "That _never_ happens."

"Miss Smoak?" Gerry said, nervously.

Felicity blinked, scrolling through her new messages, many of which seemed to be about some kind of news report. "Right. Tell him I'm…on my way."

* * *

Felicity rapped on Ray's office door, wincing at the sound her ring made on the glass. "Hey," she said, sticking her head through the half-opening. "You wanted to see me?"

Ray looked up from his computer screen with a wide-eyed expression. "H-ey," he said, distractedly.

"Everything okay?" Felicity was beginning to feel a little weirded out, a feeling not helped at all by Ray's evasive answer.

"Do you remember that time I mentioned that I had everyone on Google Alerts, and then you said something about how they were stupid, and that you could write an algorithm that would have the alerts showing up in half the time, with four times the accuracy?" Ray said, his eyes darting between her and whatever was on his screen.

Felicity made a face of vague recollection. "It wouldn't be the first time upgraded your tech," she said. "Why?"

"Okay, you obviously didn't get where I was going with that." Ray winced, as if he was bracing himself to be the bearer of bad news. "I don't know how the press got the photo, but — yeah — you and Oliver? Not so secret anymore."

For a brief — horrible — moment, Felicity thought that Ray was talking about Oliver being the Arrow, until Ray flipped his monitor in her direction and she saw what he'd been looking at.

The photos were in black and white and atrociously grainy for a publication like the Starling City Sentinel, but gist of it was pretty clear.

Two photos, side by side. Two moments Felicity remembered very vividly from the night before, only seconds apart. The first was Oliver reaching up to caress her face, his hand sliding into her hair as he leaned close to whisper, _play along_.

And the second? Felicity felt the flush spread across her cheeks as she stared at the photo of them locked in a kiss.

So, it was official — in more ways than one.

She had a ring on her finger, and the press had found out about her and Oliver Queen.

* * *

"Hey," Felicity said, shifting her phone between shoulder and ear as she accepted a stack of binders from Ray's secretary. "How's everything going over there?"

The noise Oliver made on the other end of the line was all she needed to know. "Hectic," he said, and Felicity swore she heard Walter on his side of the call. Not barking at Oliver, which was a good sign, but then again, British people didn't speak above regular-conversation decibels, even when they were about to go nuclear. "I only heard the news when I got back to the office." She could practically hear the wince in his voice. "From Walter."

"Ah. Maybe if we invite him to the wedding, he'll feel better about the whole thing," Felicity suggested.

"Maybe." Oliver shifted in his chair. "What about you?"

Felicity laughed without much enthusiasm. "If I'd known the press would take such an active interest in me, I would have cut down on the PR costs for the Palmer Tech/QI deal," she said, darkly.

"Sorry," he said. "I know you wanted avoid — _this_."

Felicity pinched the bridge of her nose. "I'm guessing it comes with being a Queen?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Are you going to be all right?"

"Depends. Are we sleeping together tonight —" Felicity grimaced at the unfortunate phrasing "— and is there wine involved?"

"Unequivocally, yes."

"Then I'm great." Felicity glanced inadvertently at her door, and found Gerry trying to get her attention by waving his arms above his head like he was trying to direct a plane. "Uh, Oliver? I have to go. See you tonight?"

"See you tonight."

Felicity dropped her phone onto her desk with more force than intended when Gerry elbowed through the doors, looking very flustered and pink. "Sorry, Miss Smoak, but you have a visitor."

Felicity glanced automatically at her schedule. "But I don't have anyone for another hour," she said.

Gerry shuffled his feet. "She says it's about family."

 _Oh frack_. Felicity could not — repeat — _not_ handle a visit from her mother right now. Maybe Gerry could tell from her traumatized expression that it was in his best interests to bow out, because he backpedaled. Hastily. "I'll just — send her in," he said, and held the door open for her unseen visitor.

Felicity had her fingers crossed that it wouldn't be her mother.

But she really needn't have bothered, because it was most certainly _not_ Donna Smoak. Worse, actually. Over-affectionate greetings and revealing outfits, Felicity could handle. One of Oliver's mob boss ex-girlfriends…not so much.

"We haven't officially met," she said, extending her hand. "I'm Sandra."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun-dun-duuuuun.
> 
> Also, I made another one trailer thingy for Olicity. It's a happy one (obviously), so no worries there. Search "The Way Back International Trailer Olicity" or go on my Tumblr ChronicOlicity. Cheers!
> 
> HOLY FREAKING SHIT. DID ANYONE SEE THE FUCKENING THING ON ARROW TWITTER? OH GOOD LORD. COMBUSTING. SERIOUSLY. *HE TAKES OFF HER GLASSES* *REPEAT* *HE TAKES OFF HER GLASSES*


	21. Hero, Hacker, Soldier, Sidekick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear to God that 3x20 promo is all I'm ever going to be thinking about for the foreseeable future. And then some.

Felicity was acutely aware of how dry her mouth was, and the very _real_ effort it took to stay seated, when every instinct told her that putting a few dozen feet between her and Sandra was the smartest thing to do.

But unless she wanted to step straight off the twenty-seventh floor and see if gravity was willing to make an exception for her — distance was _not_ an option.

She still had a vivid recollection of the time Helena Bertinelli had visited her back in Queen Consolidated's IT department…and the rope burns after the fact. At least the office walls were glass, so the possibility of being physically assaulted was at a minimum.

Even so, she stared at Sandra's outstretched hand like it was a grenade. "Sandra — Sandra Hawke," she said nervously, as alarms went off inside her head. "The college girlfriend. The scary one. The one who can — disembowel me — with her pinky finger."

Sandra raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow as reclined into an office chair, crossing her long (and very leggy) legs at the knee. "Do you always talk this much?" she remarked, her dark eyes subjecting Felicity to a wordless appraisal.

Felicity stared at the point of Sandra's needle-sharp stilettos and tried not to imagine them going through her skull. She cleared her throat, loudly. "Only when I'm fearing for my life," she said, with a flippancy that was nowhere near genuine. "At the risk of sounding completely elementary-school, I don't think I should be talking to you."

"Fine." Sandra tossed her head, surveying the people passing Felicity's office with a razor-sharp smile. "Now tell me who I should kill. Personally, I wouldn't miss the blabbermouth manning the desk outside, but — well — ladies' choice."

Felicity leaned back in her chair, determined not to take the bait. "What do you want, Sandra?" she said, slowly.

Sandra smirked and surveyed Felicity over her clasped hands. Her fingernails were painted — a highly appropriate — blood red, and glinted like metal-tipped claws. "I heard about you and Oliver on the news," she said, indicating her left hand, ironically adorned with a fancier collection of rings than the simple titanium band Felicity wore. "Well _done._ The Ollie I knew in college wasn't exactly…commitment-friendly. And look at him now: dabbling in a little vigilante romance, making plans to marry the small town girl. _Really_ — you've done the impossible. You've actually given Ollie a shot at being decent."

"Well, five years on a deserted island will do that to you," Felicity said, wondering if Sandra was intentionally making Oliver seem like a disobedient dog who'd learned a new trick. "Not to be rude — even though most people who preface whatever they're saying with _not to be rude_ actually _do_ want to be rude, which I don't, FYI — why are you here?"

"Ah. Well," Sandra said, in her breathy purr. "I don't imagine you'd believe me if I said I came to congratulate you in person."

Felicity didn't see the point of lying — so she didn't. "Not even a little," she answered, flatly.

Sandra laughed. "All right. If it's not already obvious, I know about your nighttime habits, and granted, it's taken me a while to put the pieces together for myself. Hookups between vigilante partners can…make things complicated. But I'm the kind of girl who likes to bask, so let me see if I have this right."

Felicity sighed and adjusted her glasses. First Malcolm Merlyn, now Sandra Hawke. Felicity was starting to wonder if there was a super villain grapevine she wasn't aware of, some kind of newsletter with the hot gossip and cryptic comments (perfect for goading innocent victims like herself) on page six.

"The hero, the soldier, the sidekick…and the hacker," said Sandra, counting them off on her immaculately manicured fingers. "Oliver Queen, wannabe hero, mistakenly thinks he has a singular duty to protect anyone and anything that crosses his path because it'll somehow atone for the blood on his hands. John Diggle, the experienced soldier who can't imagine living without a war to fight, decent balance of brain and brawn, but —" she made a sarcastic moue with her mouth "— more of a loyal dog than partner. Which brings us to Roy Harper, unwanted street urchin with a chip on his shoulder, more temper than training — though I'm sure you think he's working on that — idolizes the vigilante because he dreams of showing the world that it was a mistake to abandon him. Which brings me to…you." She cocked her head with an unnerving smile, taking her own sweet time to reach the last one.

"Felicity Smoak, resident hacker of this little vigilante group. Intelligent, no doubt about that, but not intelligent enough to know where to take your talents. Why run with the gang of dirty boys when you could be running them — an _army_ of them — from above?" Sandra's gaze radiated smugness as she leaned back in her chair. "Couldn't let go…or too afraid to?"

_If you ever want to be more than tech support for your little group of boys — you need to make the hard decisions, the tough calls._

Felicity heard Amanda Waller's whisper in her ear, the serpent in the grass, the ghost who refused to slip away. The truth of it must have showed on her face, because Sandra cocked her head with a coy smile, slipping from her seat with an unfurling of her graceful limbs. "I told you I was good," she said, strolling over to the windows.

"Fine — you think you have us figured out," she said. "We're horrible at poker faces, and believe you me, you're not the first psychopath to notice that. So. What?"

Sandra's arms were folded tightly across her chest. The daylight caught traces of brown in her flaming hair, a deep, wooded color that made her look older — and sadder — than Felicity imagined. "It's not going to work out," she said. "All of you are just wasting your time with this city. I have the Starling Bratva under my thumb, but believe me, _I_ don't control the vices around here. Starling City is rotten to the core, and people like you need to stop pretending to make a dent in whatever little charity cause you think you're helping. In this world, you either go big or you go home, and a city like Starling _needs_ a big play. The kind of move that none of you have the guts to make. So get out of our way before we decide to get serious."

"We?" Felicity repeated.

"Like I said." Sandra's rings glinted under the sunlight when she turned to the window, a dark silhouette against pure white. "Bigger game, bigger players. Why don't you let the adults handle it — while you deal with _this._ "

Felicity's throat tightened as Sandra reached into her bag. In that second, her imagination ran rampant, and it was a surprise when Sandra sent a brown paper envelope skittering across Felicity's desk, spilling photos as it went.

"You're welcome to them," she said, dusting off her hands. "Because I want you to deliver a message to Oliver Queen."

Felicity made no move to touch them. "You do realize that I'm not a courier service, right?" she said, folding her arms.

Sandra inclined her head. "Oh, I'm sure you have better things to do. Except the decision you make here and now will reflect on you as much as it will reflect on Oliver. So my friendly advice is to take a look."

The glare from the windows glazed the photographs an opaque white, making it impossible to see what they were. Her first — and totally inappropriate — thought was nudes ( _gross_ , BTW, but in character with Ollie Queen, resident billionaire playboy of the East Coast college scene), but given her recent experience with Sandra, compromising proof of Oliver being the vigilante was possibility _numero uno_. With a thick swallow, Felicity leaned over the desk and used her fingertip to slide one of the photos out of the glare.

For a long moment, she didn't say a word, because she didn't understand why Sandra was giving this to her. It was a photo of Oliver as a young boy — maybe Martin's age — looking solemnly up at her with his startling blue eyes, wearing some kind of stiff boarding-school-type uniform.

Cute…and making no sense whatsoever. Felicity looked up in confusion, wondering if it was a _faux pas_ to point out that Sandra had grabbed the wrong blackmail envelope. "I don't think Oliver's going to be embarrassed by photos of him as a kid," she said, picking another from the pile. It was him again, same uniform, standing beneath a copse of oak trees — Central City's famous tree-flanked walkway — part of a park that had been recently donated to the city by an uber-rich family. But what else? Felicity frowned as she recalled snippets of Barry's over-enthusiastic fact vomits, him striding ahead on his insanely long legs while she had to keep up at a normal-human walking speed.

Rich family…tallest tree stretched past a hundred-and-fifty feet…and —

"— opened to the public in 2012…" she said, softly.

Felicity's head jerked up, and she stared at Sandra as if she was seeing her for the first time. "Oh my god," she whispered.

It wasn't Oliver in the photo. Not at all.

"You tell Oliver that he has a son, and that his name is Connor," Sandra said, slowly, and deliberately. "You tell him that nine years ago, his mother gave me two million dollars to tell Oliver I lost the baby and disappear, all so an unwanted grandchild wouldn't spoil her golden boy's future." She made a face. "I don't think Moira really imagined Oliver would go down the Robin Hood route, but then again, most people don't have high expectations for narcissistic playboys."

"DNA test," Felicity murmured, gripping the edge of the table so tightly that her knuckles were bone-white. "Bank statements."

"Hidden, but traceable, I'm sure." Sandra swung her bag idly from the crook of her arm with a sweet smile. "That's why I came to you, Miss Smoak. You're smart enough to make sure I'm telling the truth, and you're also naïve enough to think you'll be doing the right thing by telling Oliver. Although you should know that I have zero interest in asking him to play-act at being Connor's father."

"So why tell me?" Felicity said. "You could have given him the proof yourself. You could have sat on it forever — and with two million dollars, I'm guessing you can do a _lot_ of comfortable sitting."

"Call it curiosity. Maybe I'm interested to see what the woman good enough for this new Oliver might do — you know — when she finds out that her fiancé comes with a lot more emotional baggage than a few dead parents. _How_ does one broach that taboo, I wonder?" Sandra shrugged, as if it was a casual conversation about the difference between Earl Grey and Chai. "Well, you'll let me know."

Connor Hawke's solemn face looked out from the photographs spread across Felicity's desk as Sandra sauntered towards the door.

"Oh, and —" she said, with a glance over her shoulder. "My sincere congratulations on your engagement."

* * *

To say a bomb had been dropped would be an understatement of _colossal_ proportions. There were nuclear bombs, and then there were black-hole-warp things Barry and Cisco were eternally geeking out about. Felicity — in a rare show of pessimism — was starting to think that the latter was true.

Felicity sat in her office chair, her back to the door as she stared blankly at the photo in her hands. Shock being the longstanding enemy of physical coordination, it was creased around the corners and battered at the edges from her not-so-careful handling.

Felicity had — without intending it — memorized the boy's face, to the point where she was sure that she'd see it in her sleep, all but branded into the backs of her eyes…this child with an expression that dwarfed his years. Sadness was etched into his gaze, the kind of sadness someone of his age shouldn't have to imagine, much less live with.

"Who are you?" she asked, softly. _What happened to you?_

Felicity turned her chair at the sound of the computerized beep, a summary of results gleaned from a hack into every conceivable channel for information regarding Connor Hawke. Even though it wasn't her habit to follow the advice of Oliver's psychopathic ex-girlfriends, she had to do this. Lie or truth, they needed to know.

And now she did.

Felicity was really starting to think that there was no such thing as a secret staying buried — not for long, anyway. Moira had probably destroyed most of the paper records, and to her credit, it might have worked. Except she hadn't considered the possibility (bearing in mind it was 2007) of someone like Felicity looking into the subject, a part-time investigator operating exclusively in the intangible sphere of digitized secrets. Moira's behind-the-scenes involvement with her first grandchild had been meticulously complete, and while it was clearly meant to be a well-kept secret, Felicity was surprised to see just how much she'd cared, to even keep track of a child she wasn't meant to see ever again.

The hospital had sent a sample to a private clinic in Starling City, one with an encrypted (but easily hackable) database. Steadily, Connor's file began to grow with facts, scattered pieces of information that formed a hazy picture of his life.

Felicity took a deep breath as she began to read.

He was nine years old, ten in April. Surprisingly, he wasn't in Starling City, but currently a fifth-grader (he'd skipped a year, wow) in a Central City boarding school famous for its Ivy League reputation and out-of-middle-class-range school fees. He was good at sports (phys ed grades were good, gymnastics especially), but he didn't play for any of the school teams. His grades were on the higher end of the spectrum, and he'd been tapped to be a prefect the following academic year.

Felicity stared at his B+ in Algebra for longer than was probably necessary, wondering why she felt relieved that he was at least turning out to be better at math than Oliver.

_His father._

Felicity winced at her mental acceptance of the fact that Connor was Oliver's son. But in all fairness, it was hard to resist the truth when it stared her so baldly in the face. Despite the fact that he'd never met his father — despite the fact that they were twenty-two years, stellar report cards and a family upbringing apart — Connor Hawke was already showing more than just a mild resemblance to Oliver Queen.

A Queen in blood, if not in name. A boy destined for something remarkable.

This boy…was _real_. Felicity could have stretched out and touched his shoulder — that was how he seemed about to vibrate off the page. Part of it was her imagination, maybe her subconscious had made up a child — hers and Oliver's — and was adding onto the very tangible fact that Oliver had a real son in the world, more real than any dream-child of theirs could ever be.

A selfish, possessive part of her wanted to guard this information from Oliver, to erase it from her mind. Sandra said it herself — she didn't want Oliver involved, so what was the point? It was a mistake learning too much about Connor, to nourish the bare bones of her sparse awareness with the very real flesh-and-blood details that prevented him from ever reverting to a dream. It wasn't the first time a woman in Oliver's life had dropped a family bombshell on her. Moira had done the same — except it had been about Thea, and she'd been so sure that Felicity would never tell Oliver if it meant that he'd hate the blonde IT girl with a very obvious crush.

If Sandra's motives were anything like Moira's, her telling Oliver would be playing into Sandra's hands — if Sandra wanted to drive a wedge between her and Oliver (reason for that still pending, but probably understandable, given what she knew about Oliver's romantic history).

_But._

Felicity had grown up without her father and had the insatiable hunger of not knowing embedded into her bones, her DNA. Maybe it would have been easier, if she'd been sure that he was a bad father, to convince herself that life was better without him. But the gap in her knowledge and the unanswered questions had a tendency to fuse with the acerbic shadows of doubt, self-loathing, and loneliness.

Maybe she'd been too easy to leave behind, too insignificant to be a reason for him to stay. Maybe there was something deeply wrong with her, maybe it drove him away. Maybe he was the worst father in the world, a selfish sub-human with nothing to love. Maybe he had his reasons — real, legitimate reasons — and still dreamed of the day when they could be a family.

Knowing was always better than a _why_ — that was what Felicity believed.

Oliver might disagree, but she knew in her heart of hearts that she had to tell him. There was never any question about it, so Sandra had been right. Though not about all of it, because even Felicity — with all her knowledge of Oliver's habits, his fears and his dreams, both good and bad — didn't know what would happen when she told him.

 _When._ Not _if_.

Felicity was going to. Her fingertips curled against Connor's photo as she turned her chair to face the window, to face the Starling City skyline — rosy with the colors of a fading day.

In, out. Three deep breaths.

Carefully, she slipped the photo back into the envelope, and the envelope into her bag, a methodical progression from one action to another. She pinched the clasp shut and nodded, firm in her decision, her choice.

"I'm going to tell him," she said, quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally wrote this after sleeping from 2AM to 5AM. I blame the promo. But I can't, actually, because that thing was AWESOME. *He takes off her glasses* *he takes off her glasses* (and does some other stuff too but mostly the glasses thing) *happy dancing*
> 
> If 3x20 turns out to be as awesome as the promo suggests, I will forget the whole character black hole that was Ray Palmer.
> 
> Also, I have somewhere in my computer a scene I wrote for our favorite couple, involving a wedding. So yep, that should be fun. Gonna unleash it when the story gets to a certain point.
> 
> Now, about the Connor storyline. Obviously, since I still have the mental capacity of a child, I'm not going to be a 100% accurate about what happens when someone finds out they have an nine-year-old kid somewhere in the world. Going off pure imagination here. I'll try my best, and I just hope it'll be enough.
> 
> Unashamed to say that I'm basing Sandra off Katherine Pierce circa Vampire Diaries season 2 (AKA before all the weird doppleganger nonsense spun COMPLETELY out of control).


	22. Revelation

Oliver was running late. Very late. He glanced at Felicity's message — he was supposed to be in the Foundry in ten minutes, and traffic outside QI was unbelievable. Due — in part — to the swarm of photographers outside the lobby.

"How's it going up there, John?" he asked, transferring the call to his earpiece.

"I haven't seen this many reporters since your mom was on trial for murder," Diggle said, and Oliver imagined him looking past the harried line of security personnel keeping the press out of the lobby. "Good thing you have a backup plan."

Oliver swung his leg over his bike. "Felicity said it was urgent, and —" he glanced at his watch and grimaced. "As of five minutes ago, I'm going to be late."

"It's Mr. Queen's bodyguard! Hey — buddy — any comment about Miss Smoak's relationship with CEO Ray Palmer — _argh!_ " The reporter went down with a strangled noise.

The bike roared to life. "John," said Oliver, lowering the helmet over his head. "Who was that?"

"I have no earthly idea," Diggle answered, a little too innocently. "Should I tell Felicity you'll be forty minutes late?"

Oliver sped out of the underground parking lot with a screech of rubber. "I think I'll tell her myself."

* * *

Felicity was running out of expletives. With a last — and very firm — curse, she slipped off her glasses and lowered her head into her hands. The computer screen, and reading the word ORACLE over and over again instead of an unlocked interface was starting to give her the crazies. Not to mention a decent dose of self-doubt.

"Frack," she muttered.

Maybe it was a bad idea to be working on ORACLE when she was supposed to be thinking of ways to tell Oliver about his son. But Oliver, as usual, was running late, and Felicity still didn't know how she wanted to do it.

The _where_ and _when_ of it, on the other hand, had been thought out — carefully. The Foundry was their neutral zone, not her apartment or Oliver's, but a place that was equally theirs. Sure, sometimes the overhead lights flickered and steam perpetually hissed out of the grates in the wall and ceiling, but they'd faced worse news in this underground basement, and quite literally for Oliver, at some point it had been home.

Hers too.

The leather creaked when she leaned back in her chair, sinking as low as she possibly could because that was exactly how she felt. The Foundry was empty except for her, even Felix had slipped out to roam the streets (an easy arrangement, because she had a microchip tracker and he was a born mouser). The team didn't come in for another few hours, not when it was the odd hour between work, and _other_ work. Not quite late enough for the crime alerts to come flooding in, too early for people who had lives of their own to report back.

Suffice it to say that she'd put some thought into the whole thing.

ORACLE, the Big Bad Wolf Malcolm and Sandra kept dancing around, Oliver's son.

Too many secrets. Felicity pressed her forehead into her palm with a borderline-angry groan. "Oliver — you have a son," she rehearsed, her eyes closed. "Oliver — you have a son. Oliver —"

The Foundry door banged open, and she looked up, her heart slamming into her throat. "Felicity?" said Oliver.

 _Now or never_ , she thought.

* * *

"I'm so sorry I'm late," Oliver said, bending to kiss her. "There were reporters everywhere, and —" He broke off, staring at her even though they were still just inches apart. "Everything all right?"

Felicity reached up and pulled him down for another kiss, and this time she could feel his surprise. When it was over, she touched her forehead to Oliver's, breathless but unwilling to let him go. "I hope so," she said, meaning it.

Oliver crouched by her chair, holding onto her hands. "Felicity — what is it?"

"Sandra came to visit me — today. At Palmer Tech." Felicity shook her head quickly when Oliver reacted, exactly how she'd expected him to. Worry, anger — if it simmered. But that wasn't the point, never the point. "That's not important. She didn't hurt me, she wanted to talk."

Felicity took a deep, shuddering breath. _Just say it — just say it_. Oliver's hand shifted, and Felicity caught a glimpse of her ring, sheltered and safe in their joined hands.

It was enough to remind her of the trust — their trust. With all the secrets they'd brought into the light, she trusted Oliver not to hate her. Not for this.

Felicity looked up, meeting Oliver's intent stare. "Do you remember what I told you — about my dad?" she said.

"Of course." His response was immediate, delivered without hesitation, and of course it was. His memory was impeccable, and as self-important as it was to assume — it had never erred when it came to them. To her.

"So you know that he left, that I barely remember him, and that — that I still don't know why." Oliver's hands were on her face now, stroking her cheeks, telling her without words that he knew, he knew.

Felicity smiled, against the unwanted prickle of tears in her eyes. Not because she didn't know how to go on, but because — in that moment — she realized what she wanted to say. The truth of hers that she wanted to tell, before she told Oliver his.

"It hurts, not knowing why he left, not knowing — _him_. If I could choose, if I had a wish, I wouldn't wish that he hadn't left, because what kind of human being walks out on his wife and kid? I'd probably be better off without him, and I am. What I would wish for — what I don't have, right now — is _why_. I'd want to know why he left, because even if my mom — or you —" she stroked Oliver's face "— even if the both of you tell me over and over that it's not my fault…I don't know for sure, and I'll _never_ know for sure. The truth is always the lesser of two evils, no matter how much it hurts. Do you understand?"

Oliver nodded silently, but his eyes were dark with confusion as he moved, slow and deliberate, to press his lips to hers. Felicity let herself be kissed, clung to his shoulders as if to pull him closer, desperately fighting her urge to prolong the moment.

But it was time. As they both caught their breath, the heat of their hands and faces burning against each other, Felicity gripped Oliver's hands in hers and gently pulled them from her face. Holding them between her hands, she kissed his knuckles, the scars and calluses on his fingers, once, twice — again.

Then, she looked into Oliver's eyes and took a deep breath. "Oliver," she said, very softly. "You have a son."

* * *

_Oliver, you have a son._

In that moment — that one instant — Oliver didn't see Felicity. Oliver saw the Queen family mansion, the hallway telephone in his hand, the old plastic making his palm feel sweaty — the stuttering pause as he thought about what to say, in response to the two simple words that filled him with a sense of dread and the knowledge that his life was completely, and utterly over.

_I'm pregnant._

Sandra, as she'd been…then. Not the stranger she was today.

His mother, acutely perceptive to his mood and sensing — immediately — that something wasn't right. Oliver shut his eyes to the flicker of memories, the ghosts and the voices in his head, disjointed images from a story he already knew by heart.

Or thought he knew.

 _Sweetheart, something's bothering you — tell me what it is_.

_She lost the baby, mom._

_I'm not ready to be a dad._

_No, but someday. It's my fondest hope for you._

_My beautiful boy._

"I can't —" Oliver said, slowly, unseeing. "Sandra lost the baby. I can't — have a son. It's — not possible."

"Oliver." Felicity's hand was at the back of his neck, gentle but insistent. "Your mother lied to you. She gave Sandra a lot of money to pretend there was a miscarriage and never see you again. She wanted…she wanted to protect you. In her own way."

"How — why — why did Sandra go to you? Why wouldn't she tell me herself?"

Felicity shook her head. "I'm not sure, and it's not important — not as much as this. Oliver, I found proof: there's bank statements, DNA tests, photos —"

Oliver recoiled. Felicity cried out when he shoved away from her chair, away from her… and the unbearable look of kindness in her eyes. "No," he said, firmly. "No."

Felicity's fingers dug into the armrests. "Is that a _no_ to the photos? Or a _no_ to the _very real_ fact that you have a son — a nine-year-old boy — growing up in Central City?"

It wasn't about the proof — Oliver hadn't even been thinking about the existence of proof, because it had never occurred to him to doubt Felicity. But Oliver tasted blood in his mouth, a gash on the inside of his cheek. "He doesn't _need_ a father like me. He doesn't _deserve_ to be dragged into the kind of life I lead. I don't have a son, Felicity. I don't."

"You do." Her face was drained of color, but her voice was steady. "You do, Oliver."

Oliver shook his head. His back was to Felicity, his hand over his eyes.

"You said you understood," Felicity said. She was on her feet, and Oliver moved — against his instincts — to put some distance between them. "When I told you about my dad — how I felt about him leaving, not knowing him — you said that you understood."

Unnatural was the idea that he had a son, after years of thinking the contrary, of marveling at his luck — that a stupid twenty-two-year-old hadn't become a father to a child who didn't deserve someone as selfish, as irresponsible as he was.

In a way, he wasn't any different today. Leading a double life as a vigilante, endangering his loved ones, himself a perpetual knife in the heart — because if he died, it would hurt them, where they didn't deserve to be hurt, not for his choices. Nine years later and he was still selfish, still irresponsible, if not worse. Ollie's mistakes wouldn't have painted a target on his son's back.

Any son to Oliver Queen — the Arrow — wouldn't be so lucky.

"Tell me," Felicity said. "Talk to me."

"I do — understand." Oliver's response was brusque, tightly controlled. "I understand, about you and your father."

"Then how is this any different?" Felicity still hadn't given up. "How is it fair that your son should have to wonder why he doesn't have a father — if there's something wrong with him? How is staying away from your son any better than what my dad did to me?"

Oliver rounded on her. "Because it is!" he shouted. "It _is_ different. It's different because your father's life doesn't endanger everyone he loves. Your father left — and you grew up safe. But what if he was like me? What if he put dangerous criminals like the Count, Brick, Slade Wilson behind bars — and let threats like Malcolm Merlyn go free? What if he came home every night and put you in danger, because if any of those criminals found out that he had a daughter, a child, do you think that they would follow some kind of code? Extend him some kind of courtesy?"

"By that logic, you're endangering Thea. You're endangering me. Diggle's endangering Sara, and Lyla. I'm endangering my mom. Endangering you." Felicity's voice was low and as carefully controlled as his, but he could tell from the stray tremor in her voice that she was very, very angry. That he had made her very angry. "We've had this argument before, Oliver. We all take risks, we all accept them. You can't just _decide_ for us — for Connor —"

Oliver realized, with a start, that he hadn't known his son's name until just then. Because she knew him, Felicity saw it, and she pressed her advantage.

"Yes, Oliver. Your son is named Connor," she said, reaching out to grip him by the forearms. "His name is Connor Hawke, and he looks so — so — much like you. He goes to a boarding school in Central City, and there's something else you should know. I hacked into school visitation records. Sandra hasn't seen him since she became active as Selena. That's two years straight. He's not just without his dad now, he's without his mom too." Felicity bent her knees, trying to get Oliver to look at her. "Yes, you may be endangering him by being the vigilante — to _save a city_ , by the way — but I'm willing to bet that if Connor were here right now, he'd want to take that risk if it means that he gets to be with his father. So please," she said, slipping her hand into his. "Please see him."

Oliver lifted his head and stared at Felicity. "Malcolm warned me about this," he said, and watched her face change. Silently, her hand fell away from his, like a stone sinking beneath still water and out of sight.

With a jerk of his head, Oliver strode over to the glass case and retrieved his bow, holding it by his side as he gathered the gear he needed — for what was about to happen. The bow was a familiar weight in his hand, an instrument of deadly precision, honing his focus to a deadly calm.

"You just found out that your mom lied to you, in a _big_ way. You're not thinking straight."

Oliver shook his head, because he was. He _was_ , she just didn't see it. "Malcolm warned me that nothing would be the same," he said, weighing an arrow in his open palm, "which means he knew about Sandra. About — _him_. They're involved — somehow. Malcolm _knows_."

Felicity blocked his way. "So what are you going to do?" she said, fiercely. "Put an arrow in him? You said it yourself, that Malcolm's alive only because he's Thea's father, and you don't know for sure that Connor's in danger because of him — Oliver. _Oliver!_ "

But Oliver was already leaving. He brushed past her on his way to the stairs — because he was going to pay a visit to Malcolm Merlyn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @Klarolicityswan - told you I was going to be apologizing :P
> 
> Oh, and for anyone who loves and watches Outlander: the drought is OVER. *Happy dance*


	23. Al Sa-Her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is Malcolm Merlyn's LOA code name. Hopefully I didn't spell that wrong. Just realized that there's no Arrow or Flash this week. I seriously suck at paying attention to dates.

"Oliver's doing _what_?" said Diggle. "What happened? Did you two fight?"

Felicity shook her head, which was pointless because he couldn't see her. Diggle was currently stuck in traffic on 48th Street, and Oliver was in the wind. "It's a long story, but right now, we need to find him before he gets himself killed. I've tried pinging his phone but he turned it off, and he isn't wearing his suit so there's no tracker —"

"Felicity — calm down. How would Oliver even find Malcolm? That man lives like a ghost and let's not forget that he comes from the same cloth as Nyssa al Ghul and everyone else in the League of Assassins. Oliver won't find him if he doesn't want to be found."

"But what if he does?" Felicity asked, trying not to panic and failing at it, one of the many things she was having trouble with today. "Malcolm was toying with Oliver when he showed up at the apartment. He's a slimeball and a liar but he always — always — manages to get under Oliver's skin. What if this is what he wants?"

"Felicity, we _have_ to stay calm. The worst thing we can do is lose our heads," Diggle said. "Have you called Roy?"

Felicity's hand was pressed to her forehead as she paced a tight circle in front of the monitors. "I did — he says he'll talk to some people he knows — there were a lot of street names flying around and I didn't —"

"I'll swing by his apartment and the secondary Foundry. Felicity, he'll be all right. We'll find him."

"Diggle, please — please — please." Felicity clenched her hands into fists, fingernails digging into her palms. She wasn't just shaking — she shuddered with it, a paralyzing toxin of anxiety and shock, because never in her worst fears did she imagine Oliver would react this way.

"We have to find him," she repeated, her anchoring thought.

"We will. Felicity — listen to me. If anyone can find him, it's you. You always find him."

Felicity nodded. "Okay. I —"

The Foundry door banged open and Felicity spun around, indescribably, unspeakably relieved. "Oliver —!"

"No," said Thea, holding her phone by her side. Her gaze traveled wordlessly over the Foundry — the monitors running a city-wide medley of tracking algorithms, the Arrow suit still in its case…and the missing bow.

Thea's head snapped towards Felicity, her eyes wide. "What's going on?"

As if on cue, the alert went off and Felicity practically lunged at the computers. For a second, she just stared at the result, because it didn't make any sense.

Starling City cemetery.

Until it did. Like a bolt of lightning in her brain. Felicity dove in front of one of the cabinets and rooted through the drawers until she found what she wanted — a mass of dark leather and whispering fabric, which she bundled roughly under one arm.

"We have to go," said Felicity, reaching for Thea's hand. It was a Hail Mary and a desperate one, but a plan that made sense — in this completely unforeseen disaster of a night.

Thea stumbled after her, with nothing of her usual long-legged grace. "Why? Where's Ollie?"

"About to do something that _redefines_ stupid," Felicity said, through her teeth. "Which is why I hope you can stop him."

* * *

_IN LOVING_

_MEMORY OF_

_THOMAS MERLYN_

_1985-2013_

_Beloved Son_

Oliver adjusted his grip on his bow, shifted, and shifted it again. Over and over he read the words on his best friend's grave, until reading became recitation, until all he could see was the danger — of letting Malcolm Merlyn into their lives, of letting him stay another day in Starling City.

 _Tommy,_ he thought, running his hand across the carved words, remembering his best friend — for all his humor, his loyalty, and his _life_. Bad things never seemed so bad with Tommy, not when there was company if he needed it, an inappropriately flippant remark to make him smile, or just — someone who would never, ever abandon him. Not since they were children, not even now.

_Everything's changed, and I wish you were here so that I could tell you._

The cemetery stirred with a rising breath of night wind, the long grass and aged trees moving with more life than the dead surrounding them ever could. Oliver's senses sharpened in the darkness, honed by his nocturnal experience as the Arrow, differentiating between an inanimate shadow from a blade in the dark, the whisper of a breeze from the quick breaths of an armed assassin.

It was those senses that made him turn, soundlessly, an arrow notched in his bow.

Malcolm raised his hands, palms open and empty. "Consider me impressed, Oliver," he said, sardonically. "I'm a hard man to find, yet here I am."

"I remember how the League leaves messages," Oliver answered. "I also know how much you like to gloat."

"I agree, but while I'm all for basking in well-deserved glory," Malcolm inclined his head, "You'll have to enlighten me on this one."

The point of Oliver's arrow was trained on Malcolm's heart. He knew he'd been angry, murderously so, which was why he'd chosen this place. Tommy's grave. It was a reminder of Tommy's last moments, that one of the last things Oliver had ever said to his best friend was a promise that he'd spared Malcolm — his father. That he'd made a promise to his first and best friend in the world, a promise not to be a killer. A promise to be better.

But Malcolm, with his sense of twisted morals and warped love, would never understand that, and Oliver was counting on it to make his bluff.

"You told me not to take the meeting, that there was a larger game in play. You knew all along that it was Sandra I'd be seeing — and you knew about my son," Oliver said, calmly.

Oliver expected Malcolm to deny it. But he did the unexpected. For once in his life, he stopped lying. "Sandra didn't want to be weak, so I taught her how not to be. Finding out about Connor was just…an unexpected windfall. He looks very much like you, Oliver. You should be very proud."

"Don't." The single word made a muscle in Malcolm's face twitch.

"You're wondering why I warned you not to go — _if_ I wanted you to go. Like I said, Oliver, I think of you as a son, and I wanted to spare you from the revelation. The last thing I wanted for you was to be burdened by something you were clearly better off not knowing. After all, balancing double identities as a vigilante isn't exactly conducive to a functional family life, is it?"

"You're one to talk."

Malcolm smirked. "Tell me, did Felicity take it as well as you? A woman in love doesn't stay that way for long when she finds out about the child that will supplant her own. How many more secrets can Felicity Smoak learn before she stops loving Oliver Queen? Because you know this, Oliver, that the man under the mask is destined to live a life alone."

"Felicity was the one who told me, and if she were here," Oliver replied, "she would be the one telling me not to end your life, even though I know for a fact that she despises you just as much as I do."

Oliver swore that Malcolm's face shifted, betraying for an instant his disappointment. As if…as if he'd been expecting Felicity to walk away — to leave Oliver.

It was an instinct, a baseless suspicion, but Oliver wondered if there'd been a purpose in having Felicity learn the news before he did. Like she — not him — was the one being tested.

"Ah," said Malcolm. "True love prevails, then. Looking forward to assembling the happy family?"

Oliver ignored him. "Malcolm, I'm warning you to stay away from my son. Right now, this is your first and final warning." Oliver's voice had taken on a coarseness, sand scraping on rough stone. "You made a mistake threatening Felicity, and you're making a mistake by thinking that you can use my son against me. Even if I've never met him, even though I may never meet him, he is under my protection. Are we clear on that?"

"Ah," said Malcolm, lowering his hands to his sides. "I'm afraid I'm going to call your bluff on that one. You won't kill me, not at my son's and your best friend's grave, not even to protect a child you've never met, and that _—_ Oliver — that is why I'm going to have to do… _this_."

Malcolm hurled something at Oliver, and he shot on sight. His arrow sparked against a blade, costing him a few crucial seconds to stop Malcolm, who emerged from behind his son's headstone with a black bow in his hands, an arrow no less deadly than Oliver's loaded to fire.

"Now," Malcolm's smile was sickeningly self-satisfied, "you were in the middle of an empty threat."

Oliver didn't flinch. "You don't know what I would do."

The truth is, since he'd found out that he was a father, Oliver didn't know either. What he _would_ do for his son.

"For your son? Oh, I'm sure you have your reserves of fatherly sacrifice, but the fact of the matter is, you care what your son — a stranger he may be — will think of you, _if_ you eventually come face to face. That naturally entails an absence of homicidal incidents, which guarantees that I am going to walk out of this cemetery very much alive. If I'm wrong, then you have my permission to put an arrow in my eye." Malcolm cocked his head. "But I'm never wrong."

If Malcolm had shot first, Oliver might have fired — maybe even to kill, if his killer instinct turned out to be stronger than Malcolm thought. But Oliver never found out, because he turned his head to the cemetery gates. There was something coming.

Someone.

* * *

"What are you doing?" Thea was a pale shape, darting in between the deadly points of two aimed arrows, her father and her brother. She raised her hands, turning from one to the other. " _Stop_!"

"Speedy, get out of the way," Oliver said, without moving. "Just go. Please — just go."

"Yes, Thea," Malcolm interjected, sarcastically, "your dear brother wants to kill me on a mere suspicion. Judge, jury and executioner once more — some patterns do seem to repeat themselves, don't they?"

"Stop it," Thea snapped, before turning to Oliver. "I know, Ollie. Felicity told me — about your — you have a son." Her voice frayed with emotion, and Oliver found himself marveling at the lack of contempt in his sister's eyes, the lack of hate.

Just worry, and so much love.

It was the love of his sister that made Oliver lower his weapon, even though Malcolm's was still drawn and deadly. Thea nodded, and Oliver reached for her open hand. It was tougher than he remembered, perfectly steady — as the two of them, the last of the Queen family, turned to face Malcolm Merlyn.

"I don't know what you're planning," Thea said, carefully, "but if you love me as daughter — at all — you will stop this, now. Family doesn't use family, not even yours — ours."

"Ah," said Malcolm. "Thea Queen and Thea Merlyn. Caught between two worlds — living proof of what a child under Oliver Queen's tutelage might do. I heard you're learning the Queen family business?" His expression radiated benevolent disapproval, like an artist surveying a fellow creator's semi-finished project, thinking how he could have done better.

"I'm not a _child_ ," Thea retorted, "and if the Queen family business is doing good for the city, then I'm more Queen than Merlyn. But for the record — I think that Ollie would make a _great_ father. Better than you've been lately."

"Be that as it may," Malcolm said, with remarkable indifference, "your brother won't stop until he knows that I am dead."

"I never said I was going to kill you," Oliver said, and he truly hadn't. "And if I was going to, it wouldn't be at Tommy's grave. I came here to give you a warning — to leave my son out of your games."

"Again, with the empty threats," Malcolm sighed. "I believe we've adequately established that you've lost your killer edge, have we —"

"Not empty," Thea interrupted. "Because if you threaten my nephew, I won't stop my brother from coming after you — in fact, I might end up helping. And if that's not enough," she took a step forward, despite Oliver trying to stop her, until Malcolm's arrow was almost at her throat. Her voice never wavered, not even as she said, softly, "If you hurt him, you will lose me…and I think you've lost enough of your children for one lifetime."

Malcolm stared at his daughter, Dearden, Queen and Merlyn all in one, as if he was — against his better judgment — seeing something of worth. As if he hadn't realized until then that Thea had in her a fierce spirit and an unwavering loyalty to family, a pure heart Oliver had seen in his younger sister from the beginning.

Malcolm swung his bow behind his back with a flourish. "Rest assured, Oliver," he said, smoothly. "Your son is worth more alive than dead. While he may pose an unexpected complication for your family life, at the moment — he's merely a piece of information that may become useful at a later date."

"That's _not_ the deal," Thea said, advancing on her father.

"It's as much as I can give, Thea, and you should learn that about me. As your father, I am prepared to give, but not to spoil, I —"

"— Malcolm Merlyn."

Oliver spun around at the voice, the indefinable accent, flavored with the whisper of silk and the hidden edge of a dagger. It had materialized from the shadows, as eerie as a ghost arisen, and all he could see was the faint outline of a dark hood, the rustle of a heavy cloak in the night wind.

Oliver stared at his sister, who didn't look surprised at all. "Speedy, how —"

"Will you not kneel for the Demon herself?" said Nyssa.

Even keeping to the shadows, Nyssa's voice rippled with the instinctive authority of a queen unquestioned in her power.

"Nyssa…" said Malcolm. The blood had drained from his face, and he took a step back, away from Thea, away from them all. "I wasn't aware that you had returned to Starling City."

"As was I," she replied, curtly. "I have heard all that has been said, and you may now consider the Queen boy under the protection of the Demon as well. Oliver's services rendered to me in the war have granted him and his sister immunity from persecution, but this blood privilege stops just short of traitors to the League's code. Should your breath stir even one hair on the boy's head, you will bring the full might of the League of Assassins down upon you — and you alone. Am I understood, _Al Sa-Her_?"

Malcolm swallowed. "You have assumed your father's mantle well, Nyssa. I'm sure Ra's would have cowered at your feet —"

" _Am I understood?_ " Nyssa hissed.

"Yes — yes."

"Then leave. Before I draw my sword and put an end to your miserable life."

With one last look at Oliver and Thea, Malcolm backed away into the shadows, and it was just the three of them surrounding Tommy's gravestone.

"Nyssa," said Oliver, "why are you here? Did Felicity —"

" _Frack_ ," Nyssa muttered, doubling over.

Oliver stared, because it was the most un-Nyssa-like thing to say, delivered in Nyssa's own voice. As he watched, Nyssa coughed and tore the scarf from her face with a faint gasp, throwing it onto the grass, along with something else — a tiny black device that blinked red in a state of activation. A voice changer, like the one he used in his suit.

Oliver stared at the half-hidden face under the hood, a face — he realized now — too pale to be Nyssa's. And it _wasn't_ her.

Felicity threw back the hood of her borrowed cloak, puffing loose strands of hair from her face. "Do you think Malcolm bought it — or do I have to long-distance call Nanda Parbat?" she asked, her breath clouding in front of her face from the cold.

Oliver stared at her, trying to process several very different trains of thought — how she'd known where he was, what possessed her to put on League robes, and that she'd both thought of and executed the smartest strategy for getting Malcolm Merlyn to leave Connor alone.

All this, she'd done for Oliver's son, a child she'd never seen, a child who wasn't hers.

"Felicity…" said Oliver, and she rounded on him in a blur of gold.

"You — complete — _ass_ — Oliver Queen!" she snarled, punctuating each word with a blow. "The next time you walk out on me to do something so _monumentally_ stupid, I am going to stick something in you — and no, it is _not_ going to be in a fun way!"

Before he could say anything else, she turned on her heel and stalked off towards the gate. Hanging back, Thea squeezed Oliver's shoulder, a look of sympathy in her eyes. "Yeah," she whispered, as they watched Felicity progress rapidly through the long grass. "She's mad."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha. Couldn't resist.
> 
> On a happier note, I was showing my older sister (who doesn't really watch Arrow) episode 2x01, and when we got to the part where the Hoods are shooting up the conference room and Oliver grabs Isabel (for some reason) and gets her out of the conference room first and the camera cuts to Felicity, my sister was like: "WAIT why didn't he grab his girlfriend?!"
> 
> HIS GIRLFRIEND.
> 
> MY SISTER BARELY WATCHES ARROW.
> 
> AND SHE COULD ALREADY TELL THAT THOSE TWO IDIOTS WERE A THING.
> 
> Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Olicity. Converting poor hapless souls into shippers without even trying. God, I love being part of this fandom.


	24. Nothing Else

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggestion: Listen to Album Leaf's 'The Light' while reading this chapter. Do it do it do it. :D

The Verdant sign flickered above their heads, throwing the immaculate club around them into a surprisingly disused light. It was an hour or so off from opening time, and Thea had sat her brother down at the bar for a frank discussion.

A discussion that somehow didn't preclude alcohol.

"I'm an aunt," said Thea, shaking her head in disbelief. "I'm twenty — and I'm an aunt." She shook her half-empty glass with a rattle of ice cubes. "I can practically feel the gray hairs sprouting."

Oliver nudged the bottle of vodka away from her reaching hand, and she gave him a skeptical look, especially given the row of bottles behind the bar. "Really? You're advocating responsibility now?"

"Getting drunk isn't the answer to this," Oliver said, evenly. "How are you? The news can't be easy to hear."

"For me?" Thea said, incredulously. "Ollie — you're the one who just found out that you're a father, that your mob boss ex-girlfriend was keeping it from you…only to visit your fiancée and drop the bombshell on _her_ , that mom — mom…" Thea became quiet at the thought of Moira, at the thought of more secrets that had been the cause of so much anger between the three of them.

Oliver reached out and took his sister's hand. "Mom only lied because of a mistake I made. If there's anyone I should be getting angry at — it's myself."

Thea smiled, ruefully. "Surprise, surprise."

"The mistakes I make always have a way of coming back to bite," said Oliver, with a brittle smile of his own.

"So what are you going to do?" Thea asked. "Felicity told me that Sandra isn't remotely interested in you getting involved, but are you going to listen?"

"I don't know." Really, he didn't. "She's the one who raised Connor — not me. She's entitled to that prerogative. But Felicity…" Oliver stopped, because he hadn't intended on mentioning her, not when he knew she was downstairs and he still hadn't patched things up between them.

"Felicity's dad left her, right?" Thea said, softly. "Makes sense that she'd want you to be there for Connor."

Oliver set his glass down with a solid _thunk_. "I feel like I've hurt her — no — I _know_ that I've hurt her, even if she says that she's okay with it. When we talked about having kids, I was always the one who promised that I'd never leave her the way her dad did, and now — now everything's…complicated again. If she decides to stay with me, she'll have a child that's not hers, whose mother is ten kinds of dangerous…and there's this," Oliver gestured to their surroundings, not the club, but the Foundry beneath their feet, as big a part of their lives — if not more — than any other place. He released a low sigh. "It's not fair to her."

Thea squeezed his hand. "You know what I think?"

Oliver smiled faintly at his sister. "What?"

"I think — scratch that — I _know_ that you're my brother, and that I love you, no matter what you do. More importantly, I think that you'll never know unless you actually talk to her, instead of sitting at a bar with your little sister, drowning your sorrows in a glass," she said, and gave him a gentle push. "So go."

Oliver slid off the bar stool and embraced his little sister. "Thank you, Speedy," he murmured.

Thea let him kiss her forehead. "Go."

* * *

"A _symbolic_ what?" said Roy.

"A symbolic voice algorithm," Felicity explained. "I originally wrote it to help cover for Oliver — or any of us — in case we had to be in two places at once. Feed voice recordings through the system, tweak levels here and there, and boom — digital recreation. Who knew crossing lines would be so helpful?" she said, with a lightness she didn't feel. At all.

"And Merlyn bought it." Diggle appeared at Felicity's elbow, a fresh pot of coffee and mugs in hand. "Good thinking."

Felicity brushed off the praise. She didn't deserve it, not after the way she'd panicked.

"I'm sorry if I scared you guys," Felicity said, looking worriedly at Diggle and Roy over her mug of coffee. "I should have known that Oliver wasn't going to go lethal on Malcolm Merlyn, I just — freaked out. Which is putting it lightly, BTW."

Diggle gave her shoulder a gentle shake. "Hey. If I found out that a mass murderer had his eye on Sara," he said, with surprising calm, "I'd have done the same thing."

"No one's disputing the fact that Malcolm's on their Death List," Roy said. "But he's Thea's father. Even if she doesn't love him, that means something to her."

"I know," Felicity said, quietly. "Thea."

It was a sobering thought, and the three of them were silent for a moment as they thought about their families, the things they could change and the things they couldn't.

"Ra's al Ghul, Malcolm Merlyn," said Felicity, ticking them off her fingers, "my Incredibly Amazing Vanishing Act of a dad —"

"— and Roy Harper Sr.," Roy added, with his usual alacrity.

"Daddy issues are really having a field day with us, aren't they?" Felicity said, a joke that no one laughed at, because it was only tragically funny.

"So," Diggle said, refilling his cup of coffee.

"So," Felicity repeated, already aware of what he was going to say.

"A kid. That's going to change things in a big way."

Felicity only looked at him, hoping he was going to follow a frank statement of the truth with some sagely advice. But evidently Diggle didn't have useful tips for this particular situation (rare, very rare).

"How'd you leave things — with Oliver?" Roy asked, with a glance at the ceiling, in the general direction of the bar where the Queen siblings (and by that she meant mostly Thea) were having a family chat. Which was good. Oliver needed his sister. His sister who hadn't called him names and imagined stabbing him with pointy objects over twenty times.

Felicity slipped her glasses from her nose and massaged her eyelids. "You mean after I told him that he had a son, tried to get him to calm down — or at least _look_ at a photo — upon which he grabbed his weapon of choice and, for all intents and purposes, raced off to do something vaguely homicidal to his sister's biological father?" she said, bluntly. " _Or_ do you mean after I hit him, called a _complete ass_ , and, if we're being excessively detail-oriented here, threatened to _stick something in him_ — my words, not his." Felicity lowered her face into her hands with a groan. "Things couldn't be better."

Diggle picked up the voice changer from where she'd left it on the desk, flicking bits of grass and soil from the black device. "Your League of Assassins bluff bought Oliver the time he needs to process the news. Malcolm's too afraid of Nyssa and the League to go anywhere near his son. It was a good plan."

"I sense there's a _but_ coming," Felicity said, with a wan smile.

"Do you want my advice?"

"Yes please."

"What do you want?" Diggle asked, sinking to his knees beside her chair. "Thinking about what Oliver's feeling is one thing, but with the both of you getting married, this involves you just as much as him. So think about it: what do you want?"

Felicity held Diggle's hand without speaking, because she was. She _was_ thinking about it, in a more selfish way than she had for the whole afternoon. Back then, her main thought had been Connor, how she didn't want him to grow up questioning himself, his worth, all because his father — a good man — wasn't around.

Now, she felt an emptiness in her belly and a vague pang in her heart. It was a wistful feeling, one she didn't quite understand, because as far as she could remember, she and Oliver had only _talked_ about the possibility of having kids. Going at the baby-making process with frequency and enthusiasm (especially given the responsible use of birth control), was far removed from the actual flesh and blood existence of a child.

But finding out that Oliver had a son would definitely put kids (theirs) on the back burner, and maybe that was why she felt a little more empty, a little colder inside.

"I want…" she said, patting Diggle's hand, "I want Oliver to be okay. And maybe — maybe — 30% of me is feeling a little sad, because the possibility of kids is getting further away. _Maybe_. 30% of a maybe."

"Felicity, I hope you know that Oliver would put any child the two of you may have in the same place — if not higher — than the son he already has. Whether that's fair or not," Diggle said hastily, seeing her expression, "he loves you. You, and his sister are the two people in this world he would do _anything_ for. Don't you ever doubt that."

Felicity looked at Roy, whose expression concurred with Diggle. "A nine-year-old kid isn't the worst thing you've faced. It's a cute age, and hey — I'll even babysit if you need me to," he said and Felicity applauded him for not looking like he regretted his offer immediately after making it.

"Sweet of you to say." Felicity smiled and tried to reach for his hand, except he swatted her away. "But I'm not sure Sandra's up for the joint custody discussion. She's not exactly interested in having Oliver as a co-parent."

"Because he's a vigilante?" Roy raised his eyebrows. "That's like the mob boss calling the kettle black."

Felicity glanced over her shoulder at the screens. "Trust me, I've been trying to make sense of their whole family arrangement, and something's just not right. According to school records, Sandra only put Connor into a boarding school right before she became active as Selena, which doesn't make any sense. Everything up until two years ago was them being a normal family — she worked at a law firm, he went to public school, just the two of them in a brownstone and the beach house for long weekends…I mean, Sandra _loved_ her son. The fact that she hasn't seen him for two years…it's out of character. It's like she had a change of heart. A big one."

"Becoming a hitwoman?" Roy suggested. "Maybe she decided that contract-killing was more important than kids."

"But Moira paid her two million dollars. She didn't need the money. And last I checked, people who work in big city law firms during the day don't decide to become assassins overnight."

"Laurel juggles being an ADA and a vigilante," Diggle pointed out, and even then he didn't look particularly convinced.

"That's true." Felicity shook her head, massaging her temples. "God — I _know_ I'm overthinking this."

"You don't trust Oliver's homicidal ex-girlfriend," said Roy, helpfully. "Pretty normal."

"What Roy means," Diggle interjected, "is that you need some rest."

"And more coffee," Felicity agreed, reaching for the pot. She inhaled the caffeine fumes, in the distant hope that it would somehow make her feel less insane (in hindsight, maybe coffee wasn't the best thing for that).

"One more thing," said Diggle, and she looked up. "Don't push Oliver into doing anything he's not ready to. The one thing that boy never fails at is questioning himself, and that's not the kind of father his son needs right now. But we all know how Oliver deals with issues that come under the personal spectrum in his life —"

"— i.e. he doesn't," Roy muttered.

"So don't push him, but don't help him outrun his problems. You've always been his anchor, and you've done what you can. This is a decision he has to reach on his own."

Felicity nodded as a slow smile warmed her face. "Good advice — voice of reason."

Diggle patted her on the shoulder, smiling. "Whenever you need me."

The sound of the Foundry door swinging open made them all look up, and Felicity felt her smile fade, as Oliver stood frozen at the top of the steps.

Diggle squeezed her shoulder in wordless reassurance. "Come on, Roy, let's give them a minute," he said.

* * *

_Let's give them a minute._

Classic Team Arrow subtlety. Except this minute was one they completely, desperately needed. Felicity put down her mug but made no move to leave her chair as Oliver walked towards her. His expression was unreadable, as was hers.

They'd fought before, of course they had, but not on something like this.

And it was becoming perfectly clear that neither of them were quite sure what to do about it. A stalemate.

"Thank you," Oliver said, quickly, as if he had to get the words out. "For what you did — back at the cemetery, with the voice changer, and the disguise…It was smart, and it worked. You fooled Malcolm Merlyn."

"Oh, I don't know," Felicity said, self-deprecation taking precedence over her ego as usual. "I think may have broke character with that last part."

Oliver made a sound partway between a laugh and a cough, and she smiled — without intending to — because she still could make him laugh when he was least expecting it. A good sign. He opened his mouth, as if he was about to say something, closed it again, then evidently thought the better of it. "…and how are you?" he asked, awkwardly.

Felicity got to her feet with a faint sigh, smoothing down her skirt. "Good," she said, softly. "I just had a War Council with Diggle and Roy about… _this_."

A faint smile crossed Oliver's face, like the idea of them both seeking advice from their friends and family instead of talking to each other directly was unintentionally amusing to him. "So did I," he admitted. "With my sister."

"What did she say?" Felicity asked, her expression guarded.

Oliver looked down at his feet. "She reminded me that I've been fixating on myself — what I'm feeling — that I didn't even think about what you were going through. How unfair this is to you, and how I shouldn't have acted the way I did." His voice was perfectly even, as if he'd been rehearsing the words in his head, as if he hadn't wanted to make any mistakes, not with this. "I'm sorry, and I want to know — how are you, really?"

Felicity bit her lip, weighing her words as carefully as Oliver had weighed his. They deserved that, at the very least. "I've been thinking…that I kind of steamrolled you on the fatherhood thing, and I'm sorry. But I did it because I know…what it's like to be the one left behind. Sometimes I imagined my dad was a monster — some Bond villain I was better off growing up without. Sometimes I imagined he was a secret agent — that he'd had to leave to protect me and my mom — until I realized that it was just a fantasy. That I'd never know. I think I just got carried away by the thought of another kid — wondering his whole life about his father, about himself."

Felicity hastily scrubbed her hand across her cheek, brushing off the fact that she was crying. "When I think about your son doing the same thing — it hurts," she said, thickly. "Not just because it's not your fault that you never knew about him. It's because you're not a monster, you're not a villain — you're a hero. You're a good man and I so want your son to see that."

"Felicity…"

Felicity shook her head to stop him, because she needed to say this. "I want you to be the best that you can be," she said, in a rush. "And with everything so aggressively not-conventional with our lives, I just wanted you to have this — being a father. Something normal." She made a face at her phrasing. "Normal-adjacent, anyway," she added, ruefully.

Oliver nodded, and she found herself watching the way he chafed his fingers as he thought about what to say next.

"I understand," he said, quietly. "But that's the thing, Felicity. Before I found out about Connor, I thought I was ready to be a father. I thought I was going to have children, that I was going to have them with you, and that everything was going to be all right. But after this…" He shook his head, and it was with an expression of heartbreaking longing, the same one she'd recognized from the hospital, nearly two years ago.

"…I'm not sure if I'm ready to be a father. I don't want my son to see me like this."

Even though Felicity had been expecting it, her heart sank anyway, and she turned, reaching for the edge of the desk. "Okay," she began. "That's —"

"— not yet," Oliver said, suddenly. "But I will be, one day, I think. He — _Connor_ — deserves to have a good father, and I won't — I _can't_ — fail him. Not again."

Felicity didn't move, even though her instincts were to touch him, to comfort him. But not yet. Like Diggle said, he needed to reach this decision on his own, and she couldn't be the one yanking him towards it. "So what are you saying?" she asked, slowly, trying not to chafe her arms against the sudden chill.

"I'm saying…" Oliver looked up at her, and his face was perfectly serious. "That I need some time. But I _promise_ you — I'm not going to abandon my son. Just like I'm not going to abandon you…and _us_."

Felicity's heart broke at the naked vulnerability in his expression — and broke again at what he said next. "If you'll still have me," he said, hoarsely.

Felicity didn't say anything, because there was nothing she could have said that would have come close to what she did next. She took two shaking steps forward, then three more — surer this time — until she was close enough to be looking up at Oliver's face and he was looking down at her, and nothing else needed to be said.

Oliver closed his eyes and drew her to him, resting his forehead against hers with a low sigh. Felicity felt the heat of him thaw the cold in her body, just from something as simple as having his hands in the small of her back and her arms around his neck. The two of them held each other, unspeakably relieved that — after everything — they still had this, that they would always have this. The unwavering, but very simple ability to stand in each other's arms, whatever obstacles the day had brought, whatever they still had to face.

Felicity turned her face into Oliver's neck. "Of course I'll still have you," she whispered, because she needed him to hear it. "Always, Oliver."

She felt him nod, and they both pulled back, if only just a little. Oliver was looking down at her hands, at where they rested against his chest…at the pale gleam of her ring. A promise of marriage and a piece of his soul entrusted to her keeping. Silently, Felicity reached up to hold Oliver's face, cradling it between her open palms. But Oliver was the one who closed the few inches still between them, by bending his head and touching his lips to hers.

It was quiet and unbelievably gentle. A chaste kiss, so far removed from the desperate caresses of a young couple in love, and they still were — in love. They loved each other and were _in love_ with each other — that would never change. But at the same time, Felicity like something had. She felt like they'd grown, that this was a mark of something more mature, a deeper tie in the already-deep bond between their two very different souls.

She couldn't have named it, couldn't have quantified it, save for the fact that she knew it was love. Just like how she knew things weren't going to be simple, or easy, not in their world — but they would face it, they would face it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @Killersmoak - Hopefully that fixed it :D
> 
> Seriously excited about what's coming in the next few chapters — contingent on whether my brain (and study schedule) cooperates with me.


	25. Timing and Technical Assistance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh. This chapter kinda got away from me here.

A sudden gust of wind sent the rain pattering against the windowpane, but neither Felicity nor Oliver looked up from the photos laid out across the bedspread. He was glad to be in Felicity's apartment, in Felicity's bed, going through the envelope of photos Sandra had given her earlier that day. Despite what he'd said about not being ready, Oliver wanted to do this. It was a step in the right direction, towards understanding his son.

"He looks like me," said Oliver, turning the photo so Felicity could see it around his shoulder. Even to his own ears he sounded surprised.

Felicity's face appeared above his, upside down because his head was in her lap. "The thing about _children_ , Oliver," she said, straight-faced, "is that they tend to look like their parents."

Oliver smiled at her teasing and went back to Connor's photo. It was probably the unfamiliarity — maybe the fact that he'd never had to pay much attention — but there was something quietly remarkable about seeing himself in a child's — his child's — face. A younger, softer version of himself, one with all the edges and scars smoothed away.

There were pictures of him as a child somewhere — Thea probably knew where — and Oliver could have sworn that had they been put side by side for comparison, the two of them would have borne an uncanny resemblance. Even down to the uncomfortably stiff school uniform that chafed his chin. Oliver rubbed at it absently before he realized what he was doing.

"I like this one," said Felicity, showing him a different photo of Connor at the beach. Unlike the other pictures, there was a quiet smile on his pale face as he sat on the sand in a faded t-shirt and shorts. That was probably the one difference between them — Oliver smiled less now, but as a child he'd rarely been able to take anything seriously.

Oliver took the photo with a smile, and looked through the rest, one by one, all while Felicity stroked his hair in silence. He knew without a shadow of a doubt — after what happened in the cemetery with Malcolm and from what Felicity had told him — that the news, the truth…it had been meant to be a punishment, some kind of blow that would drive her away from Oliver. A blow that _should_ have driven her away.

What they failed to understand about Felicity, and what Oliver sometimes forgot, was her heart. The capacity — the drive to love, fiercely, and to forgive, with hope.

Oliver glanced at Felicity, who was studying the photo with a small smile on her face. "Must run in the family," she murmured. "He's as cute as you were."

" _Cute_ ," he repeated. "That's generous. Thea showed you my pictures?"

Felicity bent and kissed the corner of his mouth. "Every last one," she said. "Bodes well for us that you didn't need braces."

"I smiled more," Oliver murmured, looking at his son. "He doesn't. I wonder why."

Felicity didn't say anything, because like him, she didn't know. But she did press her lips to the back of his hand, and Oliver knew it was her way of comforting him.

"You know, my mother said something to me once," he said, sitting up to return the last of the photos to the envelope on the bedside table. "About why parents love their children — to excess. Why they spoil them, why they _want_ them to begin with."

Felicity stretched her legs and leaned back against the headboard, her feet crossed at the ankle. "Because of excessive cuteness?" she said.

Oliver felt himself smile. "In a way," he said, sitting at the edge of the mattress. "But my mother said that the beauty of having a child was to watch…a purer — a perfected version of yourself take the chances and learn the lessons you never could. A child is the chance to right wrongs and maybe — just maybe — watch a better person grow from your mistakes." Oliver grew quiet. "That was what my mother believed."

"And what about you?" Felicity asked, softly.

Oliver turned his head, and gave her the answer he knew to be true. "I do…hope."

Felicity's eyes warmed. "It's a good feeling," she said, and her hand slipped to the back of his neck in a gentle caress. Oliver shut his eyes and leaned into her touch, feeling the tensions of the day slip away because of this one simple reassurance.

"Thank you for showing me the photos," he said.

"You're welcome." Oliver felt the covers shift when Felicity leaned in to kiss him lightly on the lips, a goodnight kiss.

Conscious of the fight they'd had earlier, Oliver was cautious not to go too far, even though he did — want to. He wanted to kiss her, and he wanted not to stop. He wanted to hold her, to touch her, and make amends for every single stupid thing he'd done that day.

Maybe Felicity knew it. Maybe she wanted him too.

Her hand was still at the nape of his neck — Oliver could feel the cool whisper of her ring on his warmer skin, the gentle pressure her fingers exerted to pull him closer.

"Oliver," she whispered, a rush of breath against his lips, "it's okay."

Emboldened by her words, Oliver gathered her in his arms and lifted her against him. Felicity's body was fluid and supple and she clung to him, her mouth opening in a wordless gasp under his because in spite of everything it all still felt right — so right —

It was a single distinct action, and everything all at once. Oliver laid her down on the bed, conscious of her hands sliding the shirt from his shoulders, the heat of her breath fanning across his bare chest. Felicity lay flat but not still, her arms thrown above her head as he opened her robe with one hand and gently moved her knees apart with the other.

"It's okay," she repeated, as his hands splayed out on either side of her head, bracing to take his weight. "It's okay." Oliver felt the light scrape of her nails against his sides before her arms came around to embrace him, and the tremor in her lips when she pressed them to the pulse in his throat. She was small, so much smaller than he was.

"It's okay," she said, one more time.

And then —

" _Ah_."

* * *

Felicity tugged the duvet up over Oliver and herself before snuggling back against him. With his arm draped protectively across her chest — a solid, sleepy weight — Felicity had never wanted to leave her bed less. His bare chest against her back was warmer than any duvet could be (as hot as a furnace, regardless of the season) and she was starting to think that it deserved to be advertised as one of the best pillows in the world.

Right, because when Oliver was naked in bed with her, the first thing she could think of was advertising him as a pillow. Good God, she was glad that _some_ thoughts didn't make the transition from brain to mouth.

Oliver's fingertips stalled in their unhurried progression through her hair.

"You called me a _complete ass_ ," he said, as if he'd just remembered.

Out of impulse, Felicity dropped a kiss on his bare forearm. "And I 100% meant it. You _are_ a complete ass," she said, turning her face sleepily into his chest. "But you're my ass."

_Oh frack._

Oliver was silent, but Felicity knew that he was laughing (inside, hopefully on the inside) as he gathered her close to him. She covered her face with a groan, adding to the list yet another incident of her linguistic capabilities ruining the moment.

And it was (had been?) a nice moment too. After all the truth-telling and running around and pretending to be deadly assassins…the two of them in Felicity's apartment, naked in her bed after doing some stuff — _that_ was by definition a nice moment.

Until the _You're My Ass_ debacle of 2015.

"Felicity?" said Oliver, and she tilted her head back to look at him.

"Yes, Oliver?"

"Happy to be," he said, and smiled down at her in a way that forced Felicity to elbow him in the ribs, leading to some highly immature antics of the rolling-around-under-the-covers variety.

Said antics ended with her triumphantly pinning Oliver to the bed by his wrists, and being naked, with her hair in a complete mess around her shoulders — she was as close to being sexy as she could get. She could tell from Oliver's expression, and one other thing (she _was_ sitting on top of him, after all) that he appreciated it too.

"Is this how we make up after fights now?" she said, breathlessly. "Because I'm not complaining."

Oliver licked his lips, and Felicity almost lost all sense of self-control right then and there. "Fights," he said, in a murmur that made her cheeks flame, "and every time I do something stupid."

"Mm." Felicity wanted to savor her power, and without relinquishing possession of his hands, she guided them in a tortuously slow progression up her body. "Because if you think about it…" she said, watching Oliver's expression as they traveled up the soft skin of her thighs.

"I had to bail you out of trouble —" over her hips, his thumbs fitting neatly into the indentations of her hipbones "— _and_ put on a disguise —" Oliver was definitely breathing hard now…was that his hand splaying across her belly? "— so _really,_ I think I should get something…extra."

Oliver gave her a heated look that went straight to the base of her spine, and she knew without a doubt that she was going to pay for the torture in an exquisite way. But it didn't mean she had to stop toying with him just yet.

Felicity stopped their entwined hands just shy of her breasts, and released him. "Now what are you going to do?" she asked, and laughed when she got the answer she wanted.

Oliver came up to meet her halfway, his hands — oh, his hands — broad palms and strong fingers very adept at making her want to submit and squirm away. Suffice it to say that if she blushed based on indecency alone, she wouldn't be able to look Oliver in the eye — _ever_.

Felicity rocked against his chest, her fingers curling into his shoulders as they moved in tandem, all restraint forgotten in favor of shuddering breaths and the gloried exploration of each other's skin. Oliver's hand glided up the small of her back and the bumps of her shoulders until it curled at the base of her neck, gently tugging her head back to bare the hollow of her throat to his lips, and it was suddenly all Felicity could do — to hold onto him as each movement took her more and more precariously towards the finish.

Until Felicity's phone started ringing.

And went on, and on, and _on_.

With a noise of frustration, Felicity broke off to attempt a grab for her phone.

" _Leave it_ ," said Oliver, his breath coming hot in the base of her throat.

"Wait —" Felicity fumbled with the buttons, which in hindsight wasn't the best idea, given her state of preoccupation, "— I'm just going to turn off the — _ah_!"

Whether accidentally or on purpose, Oliver thrust into her and Felicity arched backwards with a gasp, dropping her phone with enough force for it to smack against the floorboards. Which should have been the end of it.

Except it wasn't.

"Hello? Hello?"

On speaker. Holy frack, the call was on speaker. The phone signal (or lack thereof) made the voice sound tinnier than usual, but Felicity could have sworn that it was —

"Felicity? Honey? _Helloooo?_ "

It was actually funny how the both of them froze — all but glued together in a highly inappropriate position, sweat on their bodies and not a stitch of clothing between them…with Felicity's mom on speakerphone.

Due to the delay in answer, Donna Smoak, with all her technological know-how, evidently assumed that it was a problem with volume instead of circumstance. "FE-LI-CI-TY IT'S YOUR MOM CALLING — CAN YOU HEAR ME?" she yelled, and Felicity imagined her hanging out of the window, shouting her conversation into the general neighborhood.

Oliver started to reach for the phone, breathing hard. "Maybe we sh—"

Felicity slapped her hand over Oliver's mouth, her eyes wide with desperation. If Donna figured out that she was in bed with her boyfriend — sorry — fiancé she was never going to hear the end of it. That and the TMI medley of sex stories she'd be highly tempted to call Child Services on.

Oliver (quite sensibly) put his hand over the mic, and removed Felicity's palm from his mouth with the other. "You should probably answer," he said, very helpfully.

"Stall her," Felicity said, lurching off the bed in search of her clothes. "Frack. Robe — I need my robe."

"Why?" Oliver said, evidently of the opinion that it was all right to take calls while being naked, because who could tell? God — did that mean he took calls naked? Even before they started —

_No time for that._

Felicity grabbed something at random — Oliver's discarded work shirt — and started to put her arms through the sleeves. "It's bad enough my mom called while we were having sex — I am _not_ talking to her without any clothes on!" she hissed.

Oliver laughed, and put the phone to his ear. "Hi, Donna," he said, in his perfect future-son-in-law voice. "Sorry about the wait — Felicity's just coming."

Felicity winced at the unfortunate phrasing, given what they'd just been doing, but Oliver didn't seem to hear it.

"She was in the shower…and dropped her phone into the sink, where I picked it up for her." He nodded at something Donna said, looking pleased with himself despite Felicity's expression of wordless horror, both at his awful lie and the even-worse delivery. "Yeah, she's just coming out of the bathroom."

Felicity whacked him with the back of her hand. _The shower?_ she mouthed. Oh good, so instead of the plain old bedroom, her mother would think that she and Oliver were having shower sex. Sometimes she forgot how Oliver wasn't any better than she was at cover stories.

Oliver covered the mic again. "What?" he asked, completely oblivious. "It's just your mom."

"Oh ha, ha, we'll see who's laughing when you're sleeping on the couch," she said, pinching the open folds of Oliver's shirt together with one hand and taking her phone — the little telecommunications grenade — with the other.

As if things weren't bad enough, Oliver's tie had contrived to tangle itself around her ankle. Felicity slapped the phone to her ear while she reached down to dislodge it, upon which it stuck around her heel, forcing her to hop out of the bedroom in a highly undignified manner, watched by a very amused — and very naked — Oliver.

When she got back, she was going to find the tie and do something he wouldn't like with it.

"Hi mom," she said, trying not to sound like she'd just had sex, if that was a _thing_. "Sorry about that, I was just in the shower —"

"You just had shower sex, didn't you?" said Donna. "Oh my God, honey, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt — was it good?"

" _Mom!_ " Felicity said, horrified. " _Boundaries._ "

"But your boyfriend — sorry — _fiancé_ is so pretty! Let me love how pretty he is!"

"Mom." Felicity pinched the bridge of her nose, standing in the freezing kitchen with gooseflesh on her bare legs. "Did you call just to be Mrs. Robinson?"

Donna laughed. "Oh honey! I just want to know that my daughter's having a complete — _fulfilling_ experience —"

"—mom—"

"— _life_ experience!"

"My experience — _experiences_ — are fine, thank you for the inappropriate motherly concern, by the way. Look, mom, it's late, can I call you tomorrow?"

"Wait! I haven't talked to my baby girl for so long, and you never _call_ —"

"What are you talking about? I call you every week."

"How are things with _Oliver_?" Her mom always said Oliver's name like it was some kind of prayer, an all-encompassing cure to her daughter's terminally single state. "He's such a sweet boy, so — so handsome, I didn't know billionaires could be so _nice_ —"

"— things with Oliver are fine —"

"Have you set a date yet?"

Felicity hesitated. "No."

"You can't keep pushing back the wedding, honey. I mean, what if you get pregnant? By the time you get everything together, you'll be too big to fit into your dress, and trust me, Felicity, a pregnant bride is _not_ something to joke about."

"Yes, mom, I still have your wedding photo in my drawer. And you were, like, _barely_ showing."

"A-ha! So you _are_ pregnant!"

"No!" Felicity had lost track of where and when the conversation had first started, or the exact point at which it had taken a steep nosedive. "Mom, you called about something?" she said, interrupting Donna's soliloquy about the joys of birth control " _meant for her_ " ( _Ew._ A thousand times _ew_ ).

"Oh, right, I was just getting to it." She could hear the rustle of something papery in the background. "Oliver's sister called earlier to check if I got my invitation."

"What invitation?" Felicity said, blankly.

"To your birthday party, honey! Oh, it's so _sweet_ of Thea to check in person, she's such a sweetheart for making sure I have my ticket and hotel room —"

"Wait — birthday party? Oliver never said anything about a birthday party. Are you sure this is legit? The last time you got a plane ticket in an email it was my evil ex-boyfriend trying to lure you into town."

"Don't be silly, I told you Thea called," Donna said, breezily, as if being kidnapped and having a gun to her head was just a plain old family visit. "Black tie, fancy hotel, oh honey, you're going to have such a nice time!"

"Black — _black_ tie?"

"Oh, don't worry, honey, I'll get you a dress for your birthday. You have such pretty hair — I was thinking about something gold…sparkly, of course it has to be sparkly, and maybe some _lace_ …"

Felicity sighed, and submitted herself to Donna's very detailed description of her party dress…which in all honesty was starting to sound like a very ostentatious and very tattered piece of lingerie.

The only thing getting her through the call was the dark thought that a certain Queen family billionaire was going to meet his maker.

But only after they finished what they'd started. Every man deserved a last meal, after all.

"One week until your birthday! Oh, I'm so _excited_ to see everyone and spend some time with my baby girl. You have such sweet friends, I'm so happy for you, Felicity."

Felicity smiled at that, because her mother — while being her mother — loved her to a fault, no matter how far she moved away, no matter how embarrassed Felicity looked at something she did. "I love you, mom," she said, and meant it.

"I love you too, honey. Now you go on back to Oliver — it's not nice to leave a man waiting for you in the shower —"

"— _goodbye,_ mom."

"Love you—!"

Felicity hung up, shaking her head like it could dislodge the whole conversation from the fabric of her brain. Funnily enough, her mom's lack of boundaries and unfiltered speech (ha, wonder why that was familiar) had a stubborn way of making an imprint…in the emotionally scarring type of way. So when she made it back to the bedroom, she was pretty sure that her expression was still on the traumatized side.

Oliver was propped up against the pillows, reading by the light of the bedside lamp (disappointingly, he'd decided to put on clothes since she left). He shifted inward to make room for Felicity when she climbed onto his side of the bed, still wearing her shell-shocked face.

"How's your mom?" he asked, as if it wasn't already apparent from her facial expression.

In lieu of an answer, Felicity plopped down beside him and yanked the front of his shirt up to cover her face. " _Mmffffffff_ ," she groaned.

Oliver laughed and gathered her close to him, kissing the inch or so of her forehead left exposed above his shirt collar. "Your mom loves you," he said, as Felicity writhed from embarrassment in his arms.

"She thought we were having sex in the _shower_ , Oliver. The _shower_. My mom. Shower. My mom —"

"— well, it's not as if we haven't —"

"— Oh my God, Oliver!"

"All right, all right —" Oliver pried Felicity out from the mound of pillows she was trying to bury herself in. "Look, your mom's only coming next week. Thea made sure she has her own hotel room, so she doesn't have to stay with us if you don't want her to."

Felicity poked her head out from his shirt, her gaze suddenly sharp. "Her own hotel room," she said, turning on her side so they were looking at each other across the pillow. "For the birthday party, you mean. The birthday party I didn't know I was having. The black tie one."

"What party?" Oliver said, blankly.

"Oliver…" Felicity said, dangerously. "You know about the party."

Oliver raised his eyebrows. "No, I don't. I know you — you hate big parties. I made reservations at _Clos Maggiore_ for seven people. The four of us, plus your mom, my sister and Lyla. Thea said she'd help with the hotel reservation, that's probably why she called your mom."

Felicity clambered on top of Oliver, planting her legs on either side of his body and pinning him to the mattress for the interrogation. "My mom said Thea called about her party invitation. Like a _real_ — paper — invitation. Are you seriously telling me that you knew nothing about this?"

Oliver gave her a look. "You know how good I am with lying."

Felicity glared at him for a second more before relenting. She released his arms with a sigh. He was right. Terrible liar.

"Frack." Felicity shook her head in disbelief, that Thea — in the middle of vigilante training and running a nightclub — could still find the energy to plan and execute a social function of unknown proportions, all without roping her older brother along as an accomplice. "How big are Queen family parties?" she asked, still hoping that a murder trial, a brief period of bankruptcy and general laying-low-ness had diminished the projected party turnout.

Oliver started to stroke her bare thigh with his thumb, looking thoughtful. The gesture was briefly distracting, but not much. "Optimistically, I'd say around seventy-five — maybe a hundred?"

" _What-am-I-marrying-into_?" Felicity whispered.

Oliver's hands slipped beneath the rumpled hem of his shirt and caressed her hips, gliding languidly across her belly…

Felicity belatedly remembered that she hadn't had time to put on any underwear, and caught her breath when Oliver's thumb — just his thumb was enough — slid between her legs.

"Is this your way…of making me…not-regret this — _ah_ — family madness?" she said, unable to concentrate on anything but the slow circles he was making with his finger. "Because it's working… _unfairly_."

"Maybe," he answered, but Felicity felt his free hand spread wide the base of her spine, holding her still as he did what he was very, _very_ good at.

"Felicity Queen," Oliver murmured, looking up at her like he was utterly content to be there.

Felicity sighed, tipping her head back to the ceiling as Oliver touched her. "Has a…certain ring to it," she said, grudgingly.

"At least we'll be together," he said. "I'll help you with your mom — and all the party guests you don't know…it'll be good practice."

"What — for social situations?"

Oliver laughed and shook his head. "For being a Queen."

Felicity groaned and looked down at the ring on her finger. "I'm a Queen now."

"You are," Oliver said, reaching up to help her undo the shirt buttons. "You are."

Before things could heat up again, Felicity bent over — panting and half-dressed — to search for her phone among the sheets. Oliver raised his eyebrow at her when she powered it down and tossed it under the bed to boot. "Wouldn't want a repeat of _that_ debacle," she explained. "It's bad enough that I'm going to have to keep an eye on you at the party, in case Donna Smoak tries to steal you away in her Jessica Rabbit party outfit — no joke, I've seen it — because my mother _loves_ you, Oliver, and when she loves someone, she gets _very_ affectionate. Like TMI affectionate. Like shares-inappropriate-stories affectionate."

"Felicity," said Oliver. "I love you, and I will love your family — no matter what."

Felicity smiled and leaned over her fiancé, brushing her hair behind one ear. "You have _no_ idea what you're marrying into," she said, playfully trailing her fingertips down the side of his face.

Oliver kissed her full on the mouth. "Try me," he whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Donna's so fun to write. I love her so much.
> 
> Aren't you glad that Oliver and Felicity made up? (And that they did it in spades) (pun intended)


	26. All Star Meet-Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, so Tumblr's Arrow Lovefest is currently ongoing, and for those of you who don't know it's basically when you spread some love for creative people in said fandom through posts (on Tumblr, obviously). I'm guessing you guys read fics, so now's a great time to tag authors and show some love/appreciation/subtle-hinting-that-you-want-them-to-finish-that-fic on Tumblr. If you read metas, like gifs and edits and fanvids, go and write something nice for the people who made them. The tag's "Arrow Lovefest" ;)

Unbelievable. Starling was all doom and gloom and storm-clouds-on-the-horizon, and the second the train left city limits — _bam_ — not a cloud in sight. So, so unfair.

"How does it always stay so _sunny_ here?" Felicity wondered, staring out the window as they sped past expanses of green grass and shrubbery.

Oliver shifted in his seat across from her, as if he'd been in a daze. "You could ask Barry," he suggested. "I'm sure he has some theory about the weather."

If _some_ meant a confusingly color-coded dossier, then yes, Barry had _some_ theories about the weather. Meteorological-quasi-supernatural hybrids. But Oliver didn't need to think Barry was weirder than he already was.

Felicity nudged his leg with her ankle. "Don't pretend you're not excited to see Barry," she said. "I know that the moment you lay eyes on him — you're going to crack a smile. Your beautiful I'm-Happy-to-See-You smile."

Oliver rested his chin on his hand and gave her an even look, the _Nice-Try-Don't-Pull-A-Fast-One-On-Me_ variation. "I know what you're doing, Felicity."

And _bingo_.

"What am I doing?" Felicity said, innocently. "I'm just going to get some help from Cisco with ORACLE."

Felicity patted the laptop bag on the seat beside her, under Oliver's watchful (and very skeptical) eye.

"Cisco specializes in mechanical engineering, not computers," said Oliver. "And I know for a fact that Connor goes to school in Central City."

Fine, it was a partial truth, since Felicity could hack circles around Cisco and if she chose to flip out on Team Flash, she could send their systems (and the STAR Labs mainframe to boot) back into the Dark Ages.

But ORACLE was not budging one bit, and Felicity needed a pair of fresh eyes.

Also, it wasn't a crime to make a mid-afternoon detour near the vicinity of Hanover Academy, a boarding school famous for getting its kids into the Ivies, among other things.

Diggle said not to push Oliver. Felicity wasn't. She wasn't going to violate child protection laws and force the two of them to meet, but at the very least, it was a step forward to have Oliver in the same city as his son, if not within a hundred yards of each other.

Felicity laid her hand on Oliver's knee. "Yet despite my _remarkable_ powers of deception," she said, gently teasing, "you agreed to come."

Oliver's hand found hers, and their fingers entwined out of habit. "I did."

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to," she said, softly. "Except maybe hug Barry. You know — just to be polite."

Oliver leaned forward in his seat, until their faces were almost touching. "You know that as long as it's you asking," he murmured. "I'll do it."

When they were this close, Felicity could see the flecks of pale gray in his blue irises, and feel the warmth of the sunlight that shone on them both…just radiating off his skin. She shouldn't have been surprised (seeing him naked was meant to have that effect on her) but she was. At how much Oliver looked at home in the sunlight, away from the storm clouds perpetually looming over his home.

Felicity wanted to save Starling as much as Oliver did. But maybe it was about more than that, for her. Something even more personal. Maybe it was about saving Oliver too, in the hope that one day, they wouldn't have to leave Starling for her to see him stand under the sun. That one day the sun would be shining down on Starling City, and Oliver Queen.

* * *

Oliver glanced at the canopy of trees above their heads, turned coppery red and russet gold in the colors of fall. Their hands — his and Felicity's — swung lightly between them as they made their way through Central City Park.

"Barry showed me this shortcut to STAR Labs the last time I was here," said Felicity, poring over the city map on her phone. "Apparently, cutting through the park saves half the time. Seriously — fastest man alive, and he still thinks about shortcuts. It's like you recommending — I don't know — automated targeting systems."

Oliver brushed a fallen leaf from the shoulder of Felicity's coat and watched it drift away in the breeze. "For someone with a knowledge of shortcuts and super-speed," he said, absently. "Barry's always late."

"Just out of curiosity," said Felicity, "you didn't bring your — _other_ — suit, did you?"

Oliver tugged gently on Felicity's hand to steer her out of a jogger's path. She was staring at him instead of the street, a habit of hers that was beginning to worry him. "Felicity, at least make an _effort_ not to crash into people."

She raised her eyebrows, undeterred. "Did you?"

Oliver sighed. "I didn't feel right leaving town without it, so…yes — I have my suit."

Felicity surprised him by stopping right in the middle of the park and taking his face in her hands. "You are _so_ adorable," she said, shaking her head. "You want to suit up and fight crime with Barry — that is quite possibly _the_ cutest thing I have ever heard."

Oliver felt his ears grow warm. "I never said —"

Felicity laughed and kissed him before he could finish. She was on her toes, her body swaying into his — utterly trusting that he would catch her — and Oliver felt his arms wrap naturally around her waist to steady her.

Normally, Oliver was more cautious during the day, never without a constant sense of being watched, but with Felicity — even though there was more to lose — she had a way of making him forget, chasing away the shadows just as surely as she brought the light. With their faces still touching, Oliver inhaled her scent, home and the crisp golden taste of autumn all around them. "Don't tell Barry," he said.

"You're cute," she murmured, and kissed him lightly on the nose. "And since you asked nicely…I'll do it."

* * *

"Sara, honey, don't touch that," said Diggle, gently lifting his daughter away from the glowing tabletop. ARGUS employed state of the art technology, and even though he'd been in HQ enough times not to be fazed by the computer systems, Sara was less immune.

"Matrix!" she said, waving her arms.

Diggle laughed at her enthusiasm. "You've been spending too much time with Felicity," he said, bouncing her on one knee as he waited for her mother.

When Lyla eventually showed up, it was with an unexpected entourage of aides, all armed with computers and talking at speeds that would have given Felicity a hard time.

"Johnny!" she said, noticing him and their daughter. "I'll be two seconds."

Diggle played with Sara while Lyla continued the rapid-fire conferencing at the door, eventually dismissing them with a harried sigh.

"Bad timing?" Diggle said, apologetically.

Lyla shook her head, and kissed him before swinging Sara up in her arms. "Nothing you did," she said. "There's a meeting with the higher-ups today — I only found out this morning from Colonel Trevor. They flew Hannibal in from the London division."

"Hannibal?" said Diggle, his thoughts going instantly to _Silence of the Lambs._

Lyla laughed, as if she could tell what he was thinking. "Not that Hannibal. Agent Damien Darhk, codename Hannibal. He's coming in to make some kind of presentation about this surveillance initiative."

"As in privacy-violating surveillance?" he said. "The kind we should be worrying about?"

Lyla gave him a severe look, well aware of the boundaries they'd established. He didn't talk about his work in detail, and neither did she. "I'm only telling you because it hasn't even gotten to planning stage, and it won't get any further. It's some kind of surveillance ship."

"Ah," said Diggle. "Too ostentatious?"

"For an organization that prefers to stay hidden?" Lyla's smile said it all. "If there's an actual prototype — it's the first I've heard of it."

"You said the higher-ups were eyeing Hannibal for the Head job. Should I be worried?"

Lyla shot him a teasing look over Sara's head. "Depends — why are you in ARGUS HQ at noon?"

Diggle chuckled. "Because the CEO of Queen Incorporated decided to take a personal day, my services as his bodyguard and driver are temporarily not required."

"Oliver? Personal day?" Lyla said, with raised eyebrows. "Is everything all right?"

"I'm sure it is. Felicity wanted to visit STAR Labs about that computer Amanda left her, but the two of them should be back by their usual crime-fighting hour."

"ORACLE?" said Lyla, looking interested. "Any progress?"

Diggle shook his head. A search for ORACLE on ARGUS records had turned up nothing, and Lyla couldn't tell him about something that didn't exist. Another one of Amanda's obtuse riddles, probably some kind of test for her son.

"I'll be honest, Johnny, if Felicity can't crack it I don't think STAR Labs will be able to make a dent in it."

Diggle didn't disagree. "I'm sure Felicity can crack it, or we'll just chalk it up to Amanda's unrealistic expectations of the world."

"This again," said Lyla, but her smile was affectionate.

"Keeps it interesting," Diggle agreed.

"Ma'am?"

Their heads both turned towards the door, where an aide was waiting expectantly.

"The meeting," Lyla muttered, setting Sara down on the ground. "Sorry, sweetheart, but mommy's got work — I'll see you at home, okay?"

As Lyla walked them briskly down the corridor, Diggle hoisted Sara up onto his shoulders and patted her knee. "Maybe we'll go to the zoo. Do you want to go to the zoo?" he asked, craning his neck to look up at his daughter.

"Circuit!" she said, and her parents exchanged looks.

"Felicity?"

"Felicity."

"— Director Michaels."

Diggle swore he heard his wife mutter something vaguely rude as she turned. "Agent Darhk," she said, extending her hand. "Nice to see you again."

For a moment, the man was as immobile as a statue, pausing for almost — almost a second too long before he shook Lyla's hand. "Likewise," he said, in a clipped accent. His dark hair was neatly trimmed to show the strong ridge of his forehead, and there was a small faded scar at the side of his mouth. His gaze passed searchingly over Diggle, who felt an instinctive need to shield Sara from this stranger.

"Your husband and daughter?" His voice had in it more appraisal than interest.

"Yes — they just came in for a visit."

"How lovely. I wasn't aware that ARGUS cultivated such healthy family environments. You must quite at ease here."

"I am, thank you," Lyla said, just as politely, even though the air between them bristled with mutual dislike.

Diggle didn't know what he'd been expecting, from an agent who'd been given Hannibal as a codename. But he _did_ know what to expect from ARGUS agents, and Darhk delivered — in spades.

There were ARGUS agents like Yamashiro and Lyla, good at what they did and focused on assessing the world as it was and responding to it — and then there were the dangerously hubristic individuals like Amanda Waller, who looked at the world and saw how it could be remolded to fit a vision shared by just a few.

Darhk had Amanda's eyes. They were a pale, slate blue, but they were as darkly opaque as Amanda's — eternally appraising, always calculating. The pause he'd sustained before greeting Lyla gave the impression of a robotic formality, as if he was a man who'd made himself aware of convention but had no interests in conforming to it.

Diggle had only just met Darhk, but he trusted his gut. It hadn't misled him about Amanda Waller, and it certainly wasn't going to mislead him about a man like Damien Darhk.

"I was given the impression that you would be attending the meeting," said Darhk. "I do hope to see you there."

"You will," Lyla promised. "I guarantee it."

Darhk inclined his head and walked on. He was a tall and lean man, and it wasn't long until he was far down the corridor — and out of earshot.

"You don't trust him at all, do you?" Diggle murmured.

Lyla's eyes were still on Darhk's receding back. "Not even a little."

* * *

Felicity felt her stomach sink as the elevator began its descent. "It's amazing how they managed to keep STAR Labs intact, after — you know — Dr. Wells turned out to be a body-hijacking time-traveling speedster." She made a face. " _Huh._ Doesn't sound any better when I say it out loud."

Oliver folded his arms and leaned back against the railing. "Happens to the best of us," he said, evenly.

Felicity glanced at him. "Body-snatching?"

"Trusting the wrong people." Oliver's eyes were dark with remembered betrayals.

Felicity reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze. "You learn not to judge," she said, and Oliver smiled faintly.

Until the doors slid open and they were startled apart by _the_ biggest yell in the history of raised voices. But instead of the smoke and carnage she expected with that kind of yell, there was just one person waiting for them in the underground vestibule. With a lollipop.

"Oh yeah," said Cisco, grinning from ear to ear. "This is gonna be _awesome_."

* * *

Felicity was still having heart palpitations by the time they made it into the main lab, led by a very enthusiastic Cisco, who kept turning around to talk to her and Oliver that he was practically walking backwards.

"So Barry said he might be a little behind schedule — apparently Iris was running late for a morning meeting, and even though _best friends_ don't get to use the Barry-Taxi, girlfriends do." Cisco rolled his eyes. "Anyway, Caitlin and Ronnie are somewhere around here —"

"Ronnie?" said Felicity. "Ronnie as in —"

"Felicity!" Caitlin appeared from one of the rooms, red-haired and gorgeous as usual. "I'm so glad you're here," she said, giving Felicity a hug.

Felicity laughed. "I made sure to call this time." She pulled back and gestured in Oliver's direction. "You remember —

"Oliver, hi — _oh_!" Caitlin nearly trod on one of Cisco's toys (toys being the operative and non-threatening word for a prototype that was likely to go _pow_ ) when she took a step back, because the sight of Oliver still had a tendency to make her oddly giggly.

"Hi," said Oliver, smiling as he shook Caitlin's hand.

Felicity sometimes wondered if he'd built up an immunity to attractive women having odd (and adoring) reactions around him. Interesting skill to cultivate alongside archery.

"Cisco?" said Caitlin, with the fixed smile of a mom trying not to be rude in front of guests. "Have you put away all your toys? Or are they all over STAR Labs and we should start looking out for landmines?"

"Hello? _Rude_ —" said Cisco, taking the disc from Caitlin and polishing it with a handful of his shirt like it was a first-place trophy. "This is an upgraded prototype for the Firestorm —"

"Cait, I didn't find the cell lysis reagent you were talking about —"

Felicity looked over Caitlin's shoulder — they all did, actually — at the young man standing in the doorway. Tall, dark-haired…not unlike the shirtless guys on the covers of those books her mom was always reading, except with infinitely more brain cells to rub together. Her first thought? _Way_ too attractive to be working in an underground lab. Her second thought came to her the moment she saw Caitlin's face light up like Christmas.

"You're…" she began.

 _Dead_. Which obviously wasn't true. The young man walked easily towards Caitlin and slipped his arm around her waist.

"Ronnie," said Caitlin, beaming shyly. "Guys, this is Ronnie Raymond — my fiancé."

* * *

"You're kidding," said Cisco, around the lollipop in his mouth. "A computer that's giving _you_ trouble?"

Felicity nodded. "I know. My self-worth hangs by a thread."

"Look, Felicity, I'm not sure what I can do with this," said Cisco. "I mean, you gave me a crash course in how to use your systems, but unless you want me to take it apart and make it into a robotic T-Rex, I don't know how to crack the uncrackable."

"But can you talk encryption with me until something jars?" she said.

"Sure — I mean, it's either that or wedding venues and _canapés_ , whatever those are," Cisco muttered, darkly.

"Here you go." Caitlin came around with a steaming mug of coffee. "Extra sugar."

Felicity accepted the mug with a grateful smile. She pointed at Ronnie with her chin. "I'm so glad he's not dead," she said, because there was no other way to say it.

"So am I," Caitlin said, with a look at Ronnie that forced Cisco to make a not-so-subtle gagging noise.

"Guys, I thought we established that if it's just me or Barry with the two of you — the atmosphere stays third wheel-friendly," he said, glaring at them over the laptop.

"But Felicity and Oliver are here too," Ronnie answered, with a grin.

"Oh right," Cisco muttered. "Dammit."

"You said you were living under a bridge?" Oliver asked, with an inordinate amount of interest. Maybe conversations about survival situations were to him what heated discussions about processing servers were to her.

Ronnie made a noise of assent. "Sleeping rough, eating whatever we could find…"

Felicity put down her mug of coffee and wrapped her arms around Oliver's waist, resting her chin on his shoulder as they listened to Ronnie describe being a homeless guy equipped with some serious blowtorch capacity. Oliver's hand was on her forearm, his thumb tracing absent circles in her skin.

"…there were a couple of times we almost got mugged by some kids—"

"Wait," said Felicity, " _we_?"

"Yeah." Ronnie blinked, as if he was wondering at her question. "Me and Professor Stein."

Felicity glanced at Oliver, who looked just as nonplussed. "I thought it was just you," he said.

"You didn't tell them?" Ronnie glanced at Caitlin and Cisco, who shook their heads. "Professor Stein and I were merged in the particle accelerator explosion. Firestorm…refers to the both of us."

"Merged," Felicity repeated. "Like — mind and body."

"Well, my physical form and Professor Stein's mind usually take dominance, but the both of us are in there — and alive," Ronnie explained, with remarkable calmness. "It's a little weird."

"Are you kidding me? Professor Martin Stein is a _genius_ — if I had to share my brain with an AIP-grant-winning physicist that would be…" Felicity cleared her throat, realizing that everyone was staring. "Too much…information…and probably a lot less talking."

"I get that a lot. Cait told me about you." Ronnie turned to Caitlin with a smile. "You weren't kidding."

"Cute, right?" she said, and Felicity blushed, glad that she could use Oliver's shoulder as a shield for her burning face.

Somewhere, a computer beeped.

"Oo —" said Cisco, racing to get behind the monitors. He looked up with an expression of glee. "Barry's on his way. Facial recognition — thank you for that, by the way — picked him up just outside the junction. Apparently he stopped for a burrito. _Huh_." Cisco looked vaguely hurt that he'd been excluded.

"Cisco," said Caitlin.

"Right. Sorry. Anyway, he should be here in: three…" Cisco turned towards the doors expectantly, "two…o—"

Whatever he said next was drowned out by the deafening crackle of electricity and a blinding flash of red that ended with a lot of loose papers, maybe a leaf or two…and a lanky young man in a red suit.

Barry grinned at them. "Hey guys," he said. "What's up?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Wells is NOT in this (or he's been not-so-subtly written out because I have no idea where that plotline's going and I'd rather not mix them up). Ronnie's in this, because I love Ronnie and Robbie Amell, so whatever - he's part of this.
> 
> Uhhhh what else...
> 
> Fluff is cute and I like writing fluff. Cheers.


	27. The Unhackable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I do realize that 'Unhackable' is not a word. But still.
> 
> Yeesh the word count on Legacies is starting to climb.
> 
> Oh and this chapter is Olicity being DISGUSTINGLY cute in STAR Labs because thanks to somebody *glares at Pidanka* I know that Flash 1x18 is going to be crammed full of Raylicity. Which should have been cute (because it's The Flash, duh) but for some strange reason is just…not. So yeah, disgusting Olicity cuteness. Sound good? Good.  
> Side note: I'm probably going to pass on the Flash this week, at least until I get a look at 3x19 and Raylicity breaks up for good. Then 1x18 becomes a distant memory. Woohoo.

"I like that one," Felicity said, reaching around Oliver's shoulder to point at the design for a new arrow.

Oliver stroked her waist absently while he gave said design a closer look. "It releases an oneirogenic general anesthetic," he read, like that resolved everything.

Felicity nearly tumbled off his lap when she misjudged how far she had to lean back to see his face. "What's wrong with that? Every vigilante needs a good dose of knockout gas."

"I already have tranquilizer darts," Oliver said, swiping across the tablet screen to change the page. "Gas is too volatile. It lacks precision."

"Mm." Felicity kissed Oliver's cheek, wondering why listening to him talk precision was oddly arousing. "So that's a hard pass on the boxing glove arrow, then?"

Oliver laughed. "Right."

"Bah." Felicity went back to reading the designs Cisco had given-slash-forced-onto them. In comparison to the extensive list of things she'd done as Oliver's vigilante partner-in-crime, sitting in his lap and looking at prototype arrows with him — definitely not as weird.

Sure, most couples just read a magazine or watched a movie together. But that was them — her and Oliver. The unconventional punctuated every now and again with the soothing normality of a conventional life. Ish.

Felicity rested her chin at the top of Oliver's head while they looked at the designs. "Since we're here, we should probably look into getting Thea her own suit."

Oliver sucked in his breath in preparation to object, and Felicity braced herself, already anticipating the laundry list of reasons she knew by heart.

"I don't want to encourage her," he said, in his _I'm-Being-the-Reasonable-One_ voice (common guest appearances included movie night choices and negotiated shirtlessness). "If there's a chance my sister doesn't want to make her life about being a vigilante, I want her to take it."

"Right, because telling her that you're the Arrow, training her, going out into the field with her…that's just — what — a fun family thing?"

Oliver shot her a look in response to the snark, but Felicity powered through anyway. "Whether you like it or not, your sister is part of the crusade now. You brought her in, you're _training_ her, and she's learning, Oliver. She's _good —_ and she'll only get better. You can't expect her to fight crime in Roy's old hoodie. Not only is that glaringly obvious to anyone who remembers a nineteen-year-old Abercrombie model with anger issues giving street thugs hell, it's also not great for concealing her kinda-famous regular face. Thea Queen isn't exactly an anonymous citizen, and if they find out that _she's_ in the vigilante business, guess who's going to be next on the logical jump?"

Oliver sighed, which was how she knew that it was working. Incrementally, which was the only way Oliver knew how to bend. But Felicity knew how to handle that.

"Baby steps?" Felicity said, ducking her head to give him a quick peck on the cheek. "Maybe a mask?" Light, teasing kisses from his ear to his jaw. "Off the top of my head—" Her lips were at the corner of his mouth "— a compressible micro-fabric that doesn't…limit the visual field of an archer…on the run?" Oliver was definitely smiling now, as Felicity planted kisses all over his face to sweeten the fact that he'd lost a quasi-argument.

"Sound good?" she asked, at last.

"You know what you're doing, don't you?" said Oliver, narrowing his eyes at her. Which she didn't take all that seriously, since he wasn't making any effort to get away from her (very generous) methods of persuasion.

"I _really_ do," she agreed, and did it again, nipping playfully at his bottom lip. "So what's your answer?"

Instead of a glancing _I'm-sorta-mad-at-you_ kiss, Oliver pushed back with the kind of enthusiasm that left Felicity feeling more than a little flustered. "Like I said, as long as it's you asking…" he murmured.

Felicity laughed and wound her arms around his neck in preparation of her victory lap. "I love you," she said.

Oliver's eyes softened. "I —"

They were both buffeted by the sudden rush of air that announced Barry's arrival. Even though he'd changed out of his suit and was back to his normal preppy look, his _impeccable_ sense of timing hadn't changed. At all.

Beside her, Oliver exhaled. Loudly. Felicity sympathized, especially since she wasn't low on the frustration scale, either.

"For the record," said Barry, "I totally would have been on time — there was this guy, on my route, he was having some trouble crossing the road, so I —"

"— stopped to buy a burrito from him?" Felicity said, from her spot in Oliver's lap. "Cisco told us."

Barry winced. "Okay, fine, but in my defense — if I don't eat, I pass out, and if I pass out, that's me barreling unconscious down Fifth Street like a cannonball, causing some pretty extensive property damage. So if you think about it, I have a legitimate medical reason to be perpetually tardy."

Oliver turned to Felicity. "I thought I was the one with terrible excuses."

Barry cleared his throat loudly and gave them both a once-over. "So what are you guys doing here? I mean, it's great to see you, but do you need a blood sample analyzed? Another super-assassin invasion coming our way?"

Before Oliver could come in with _his_ version of the terrible cover story, Felicity pointed at the laptop, currently bleeping like a swear censor from whatever Cisco was doing. "Just — computer stuff. Maybe a little sight-seeing."

The part Barry took issue with was _not_ the one she'd been expecting.

"Whoa," he said. "Since when do _you_ have trouble with computers?"

Felicity sighed. "You know, it's _really_ starting to sting — the way you guys keep fixating on that. What about the thought of Oliver going sight-seeing?"

That got her a pinch around the waist, which made Felicity yelp and rock back against Oliver, laughing.

Barry made a face. "Just so we're clear, I was always rooting for you guys to get together — but were the two of you always this nauseating?"

Oliver cleared his throat, with a pointed look at Barry that was remarkably effective at changing the subject.

"Oh," said Barry, snapping his fingers like he'd just remembered. "Thanks for the party invite — from all of us. We would have called…except the invitation told us not to?"

Felicity turned to Oliver with a sigh. "Your sister has the makings of a true mastermind, you know that?"

Barry held up his hands. "Wait — is this the hot sister Cisco won't shut up about?"

" _Anyway_ ," said Felicity, before Oliver could demonstrate the unfortunate physical side-effects of hitting on Thea. "Disregarding the fact that I'm still having a birthday party at my _advanced_ age, please say you guys are going to be there."

Barry grinned. "Who else is gonna eat all the food?"

Felicity laughed at the mental image of Barry scarfing down the shrimp cocktail. "I'm going to hold you to that. On that note, I really should be getting back to my element," she said, sliding off Oliver's legs. The two of them — Barry and Oliver _them_ — deserved a minute alone to exchange tips for fighting crime in leather, or whatever vigilante mentors and mentees usually did. "You two should…talk — hero…stuff."

"Subtle," Oliver muttered in her ear.

Felicity winked at him over her shoulder before he let her slip away. "Team Arrow trait. You two — be nice."

* * *

"Okay," said Cisco, gnawing on his Twizzler as he typed commands into the keyboard. "So you've tried the Beta decryption algorithm?"

Felicity swung her chair from side to side, not taking her eyes off the maddeningly consistent ORACLE screen. "Yes. Nearly crashed the FTP. Completely epsilon in terms of decryption effect."

Cisco squinted at her. "You do know I went to Caltech, right? Not MIT. Never thought I'd say this — but I need you to speak English."

"Sorry." Felicity hadn't realized that she'd slipped back into coding jargon. "I mean I went at it with a bazooka, and nearly blew myself up."

Cisco raised both hands off the keyboard like it was red hot. "Cool. So let's _not_ do that."

Felicity sighed and reached for the pack of candy. "Twizzler?" she asked, feeling the need to extract her teeth one by one, partly to see if the computer would be motivated by some kind of blood sacrifice.

"To be honest, I'm kinda surprised ARGUS is still a thing," said Cisco, refreshing the system for a fresh try. "No offence, but for an organization that's supposed to be cutting-edge, they lost to a group that still hasn't heard of Kevlar."

Felicity waved her Twizzler like a magic wand. "Well, they don't call it the League of Assassins for nothing." she muttered. "Actually, they don't call it anything, because no one really believes that there's a super-secret collective of martial arts-trained assassins lurking in a remote Tibetan mountain ridge — SCPD's words, not mine."

Cisco laughed through his nose. "You tried to 9-1-1 the League of Assassins? Wish I'd been there to see it."

"Yeah, Det—Captain — _Captain_ Lance was very amused." Felicity pinched the bridge of her nose. "Speaking of assassins, Nyssa told me to recommend scorpion pincers for your quote- _unfortunate state of physical frailty_ -unquote. Apparently it's some kind of local remedy for a delicate constitution. Let me know how that works out."

Instead of looking offended (Felicity certainly was, on his behalf), Cisco did a full round in his chair, looking like he'd just found out that Stephen Hawking wanted to be besties. "She _asked_ about me?" he said, in a hushed voice, as if Nyssa could hear him despite the distance of several countries (and an utter lack of interest on her part) between them.

Technically, Nyssa had only referred to the _man-child in the woefully stunted body_ , which, in all fairness, could have referred to Barry, but Felicity had a hunch.

"Sure," she said. "Nyssa asked about you."

" _Cool._ " Cisco went back to the laptop with renewed enthusiasm. "So what's the story behind this computer? The shell's a magnesium alloy, which I've only seen in military field laptops, and the isolation design on this thing is meant to take some pretty serious damage — shock, water, tall drops — the kind of damage that doesn't come with office use."

"Honestly?" Felicity leaned back in her chair. "Your guess is as good as mine. The owner willed it to her nine-year-old son, and she wasn't exactly… _maternal_."

" _Paranoid_ sounds about right." Cisco widened his eyes as his hack was unceremoniously rejected by the computer. "But somehow I'm sensing that wasn't the worst thing she got called."

" _Stone-cold bitch_ was a favorite," said Felicity. "But _tricky_ — that's the word I'd use." She shook her head, thinking of Amanda, and what she was. "Her whole life was a chess game and all of us were the pieces."

"Okay, so what if there's something missing?" said Cisco, turning to face her. "You said she was tricky — and that she liked to play chess. Doctor…" He hesitated, a raw expression flitting across his face. "Doctor Wells was the same. He read people like open books. Known quantities, right? What if she — the owner — read you too? What if she knew that you'd _hack_?"

It was Felicity's turn to be confused. "Explain that sentence."

Cisco shook his head, undeterred. "You said you've been using bazookas and tank missiles and hand grenades, right? What if you're going about this the wrong way? What if the door you're trying to blow up isn't really a door? What if the only way in is a window?"

"FYI, the mixed metaphors really aren't helping," Felicity said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "So what you're saying is — I _shouldn't_ be trying to hack it…because it's not meant to be hacked."

Cisco nodded enthusiastically. "This…ORACLE…has gotta be pretty secret, right? You're probably not the only hacker who wants whatever's on here. What if she's protected it against someone like you — whose first reaction _is_ going to be to hack?"

"If that's true — then nobody's getting in this computer, not even Martin."

"Right. So what's the other way of getting into a computer that won't open? What kind of password _can't_ you hack?"

Felicity waited, and so did Cisco.

"You didn't have an answer, did you?" she said, resignedly.

Cisco chewed loudly on his candy. "Kinda hoped that you would."

Felicity reached for another Twizzler. "Okay — plan B. I run a search for the nearest supplier of scorpion pincers, and hopefully, we'll both solve this mystery posthumously. How does that sound?"

* * *

"I'm sorry about the way things turned out…with Dr. Wells," said Oliver, watching Barry carefully. "You know you can always talk to me. I have a little experience with —"

"— trust issues?" Barry suggested, humorlessly. There was a small pile of shredded paper from the empty sugar packets he'd gone through, but his hands still fidgeted all the same.

Oliver inclined his head. "Something like that."

Barry nodded. "Thank you, Oliver. And I do — know that I can talk to you. You're kinda like my Yoda, minus the speech pattern and general benevolence — I mean, Yoda would _never_ have shot me in the back with two arrows —"

"—Barry."

"Right. The point is — I'm learning from my mistakes," said Barry, with a brittle nod. "It won't happen again."

Oliver leaned forward. He hadn't imagined it — the uncharacteristic guardedness in Barry, the reticence that came with being burned once, and by a trusted friend. He recognized it because he'd seen it in himself, and the last thing he wanted to see was for Barry to lose that innocence.

"You can't blame yourself for wanting to believe the best about someone. Putting your trust in someone isn't a mistake, Barry," he said, steadily. "Having faith…is all we can do sometimes. You have to remember that."

"Don't take this the wrong way, but —" Barry laughed and looked down at his hands. "I never thought I'd hear you say that, since you're not exactly…touchy-feely. A certain somebody must be rubbing off on you."

Oliver knew that Barry was waiting for him to look towards Felicity, visible just through the glass doors of the lab, working on the computer with Cisco.

"Regardless," he said, "we all need to keep faith with the people in our lives — just like we need people who have faith in us."

Barry's smile was slow but genuine, bright when it eventually shone through. "You know, you're not so bad at this — giving advice. Now if only you'd work on the lethal training methods…"

Oliver felt himself smile. "Sorry, Barry — I'm still not done teaching you new tricks," he said.

* * *

"So in conclusion…the computer hates me, and I'm on the lookout for a friendly neighborhood supplier of scorpion pincers," said Felicity, with sigh. "Please tell me your hero chat with Barry went better than my hack session with Cisco."

Felicity felt Oliver reach naturally for her hand as they crossed the road, fallen leaves swirling behind them instead of the usual street litter in Starling City (they really needed a city-wide cleanup initiative). He made a non-committal noise in response to her question, looking distracted. "What happened with Dr. Wells isn't easy to brush off. Barry saw him as a father figure."

"Well, he can join the club," Felicity muttered. Daddy issues appeared to be a prerequisite for becoming a superhero. She glanced at Oliver, well aware of his habits when it came to mentoring.

"Just out of curiosity — you didn't give him any…homicidal advice, did you? Stuck to the motivational stuff?"

"The words _faith_ and _trust_ may have come up," Oliver agreed.

"Good." Felicity kissed him on the cheek. "Good. You're well on your way to being Barry's third dad. My evil plans for you are going _perfectly._ "

Oliver shook his head with a smile. They were within sight of Hanover Academy — evidenced by the pretty impressive cast iron fence closing off the school from the plain old sidewalk.

"Are you sure you want me to come with you?" Felicity asked, looking worriedly up at him. "I mean, if it's weird — I can just sit in a car with a radio and some newspapers with eyeholes cut into them."

Oliver pressed a kiss into the top of her head. "You don't have to do that."

"Oh good," said Felicity, double-checking her map. "Because we're here."

"I can see that," Oliver deadpanned, and Felicity made a face at him.

She was walking backwards now, trailing her hand across the iron grilles as she did. This was an excessively exterior walking tour of his son's school, since they weren't creepos who'd deceive their way into a meeting with a hapless nine-year-old kid. That stuff was for serial killers and long-lost parents who _didn't_ want to make a good first impression.

"Did you know the school keeps an actual _dossier_ on each student?" she said. "Like — a full, _what-they-eat-for-lunch_ dossier?"

"You know what my son eats for lunch?" Oliver said, raising his eyebrows.

"He's probably one of the only kids who actually _likes_ eating his vegetables," she muttered. "But no, I only glanced through it for allergy information — it was kinda creepy, even for my taste. I did, however, find a few disciplinary warnings for tree-climbing — _what_ — what did I say?" Felicity said warily, because Oliver's face broke, completely unexpectedly, into a smile.

"Speedy would like that," he said, shaking his head. "My mom used to get so mad at her for climbing the cherry trees in the garden."

"Huh. So a _lot_ of things run in the family, good to know." Felicity couldn't hide her amusement that Oliver's son — of _all_ the things his playboy billionaire father had been arrested for — would get busted for something as innocuous as climbing trees.

"Anyway," she said, glancing over her shoulder at the impressive bower of oak trees in the school's back garden, "he apparently spends most of his afternoons in a certain oak tree, instead of kicking a dirty ball around a field…"

She trailed off, because she was sure that she'd seen something beneath the trees. Someone coming towards them.

There was absolutely no way.

"Oliver," she said, reaching clumsily for him. " _Oliver_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dun


	28. Keeping Faith

"Felicity?" Oliver touched her arm, wondering why she'd frozen without warning, rooted to the ground as if she'd forgotten how to move.

Felicity's hand knocked against his shoulder, but her eyes never left — whatever she was looking at through the gates. " _Look_ ," she whispered.

Oliver followed the direction of her hand, looking past the fence, the lengthened shadows under the late afternoon sun, and the tree branches that framed his view of the school.

He felt the breath catch in his throat when he saw it — saw _him_.

A small shape had appeared from the imposing red brick building, racing silently — almost covertly — towards the trees. It was a pointless effort at secrecy anyway, given the way his son's bright hair caught the ebbing afternoon light. He dropped his bag and school coat at the base of a tall, burnished oak with suspicious ease — the kind of quickness born of habit — and started to climb.

Oliver felt himself take a step forward, moved by some unknown force of nature. Connor's features were still a blur to him from this distance, but he knew — more than ever — that his son was _real_. Because he never could have imagined it. Not like this. The way he sprang dexterously off the ground, the sureness with which he claimed each knot — each branch — on his way up, inhumanly fast and without hesitation.

He could never have imagined…this _wonder_. Connor — through no fault of his own — was a child born under unhappy circumstances. Oliver's infidelities, Moira's deception — and Sandra's too. Maybe a part of Oliver had been expecting to see a child that reflected this — this darkness.

But a child was just a child. Connor was…himself. Seeing him, even from afar, Oliver was hit with the realization that nothing he had done — none of his mistakes — could touch his son, or stop his son from being whoever he was, in his own right.

His throat felt oddly tight long after Connor had disappeared into the leaves, and they turned slowly to each other in the silence. Felicity was wide-eyed and breathless.

"That's Connor," she said, as if she couldn't believe it either. "That's your _son_."

If Oliver had been unsure about Felicity's feelings, towards the idea of him having a grown son in the absence of their own child, he was sure now. Because her face was bright with genuine — _joy_ — that Oliver had seen his son. She trembled with it, her hands coming up to cover her mouth…but her eyes shone as she looked at him.

She was — happy. Happy for him.

Oliver pulled her close and pressed his lips to her hair. There were no words he could have found, to describe seeing his son for the first time, for the unimaginable relief he felt…but Felicity held him, because she knew — she knew.

* * *

"No regrets?" Felicity asked, as they passed under the archway of the train station. "We could always stay the night."

Oliver shook his head. "No regrets. We did what we came to do."

"Glad to hear it," she said. "Now, _where_ is that ticket office…?"

"Felicity —"

Felicity stopped — half-turned towards Oliver — their joined hands extended across the space between them. She blinked, wondering at his sudden impulse.

"Everything okay?" she asked. "Did you leave something at STAR Labs?"

Oliver shook his head, watching her intently, as if he was content to just look at her. Felicity was momentarily confused, until she realized what he was doing. Today had been a good day, and he was savoring the moment, committing it to memory.

She walked towards him, until she could feel the warmth coming off his skin, the scent of cold air on his clothes, and she could cross her arms behind his back like it was just them alone at home. Standing together on the platform, they leaned into each other — unnoticed by busy, hurrying people and billowing steam from the surrounding trains.

"Connor's a beautiful boy," Felicity said, tipping her head back to look at him. "Takes after his father."

A smile flickered across Oliver's face, and she knew that he agreed. Maybe not in so many words, but with the fact that Connor was — truly — a beautiful child. Felicity sensed when Oliver moved — even if it was just a small gesture, a slight bend to his neck — and closed her eyes.

A kiss between waiting trains and the colors of a fading day…she couldn't have anticipated it — this unexpected sweetness. But it was — oh, it was. She'd come to Central City with faint hopes, wanting only for Oliver to come to terms with the idea of being in the same city as his son. Never had she intended for Oliver to actually _see_ Connor, with his own two eyes. It wasn't the father-son meeting she wanted for him, but it was a move towards exorcising the ghosts Oliver seemed to think were haunting him and his son, and the thought of Oliver being even one step closer to a conventional life, one he deserved, was indescribably sweet to her.

"One day," she whispered. "You'll meet him. One day."

Oliver nodded, and she knew that he was smiling. Felicity pressed her lips to his, one more time, before she pulled away. They smiled at each other in the twilight, and Felicity held out her hand, knowing in her heart that Oliver would always follow.

They'd made it a few steps down the platform when Felicity spotted someone, standing in front of the ticket office and — for once in the short time she'd known him — actually early.

Felicity smiled over her shoulder at Oliver, who looked as bemused as she was.

"Barry!" Felicity called. "Over here!"

* * *

"Oh, thank God," said Barry, nearly doubled over his CC Jitters carrier tray. "I thought you guys were taking the seven-thirty…" He glanced at his wristwatch and winced. "…which left eight minutes ago."

"So what you're saying is," said Felicity, "that you're actually late."

Barry scratched his head sheepishly. "Little bit." He held out one of the cups. "But I brought coffee."

Felicity laughed and kissed him on the cheek. "My hero. Give me two minutes — I just need to pick up the tickets for the train we're _actually_ taking."

Barry gave her the thumbs up and like Oliver, watched her disappear inside the ticket office.

"How can you have super speed and still not be on time?" Oliver asked, with a smile.

Barry shrugged, playing along with the long-standing joke about his punctuality. "Super-tardiness kinda neutralizes the superhuman speed."

Oliver laughed. "But you always make it in the end."

"Of course — I wasn't going to let you guys leave without saying goodbye," Barry said, preoccupied with poking around the carrier tray. "Before I forget, this one's yours." He handed Oliver the paper cup marked with his name and more exclamation points than a simple coffee order seemed to require.

"Iris says hi," Barry explained.

Oliver took the cup, finding it inordinately amusing that Barry had delivered them all the way from across the city. "I can see that. Tell her I said thank you."

"So did you guys do the thingy?" Barry asked, as Oliver took a sip.

Oliver raised his eyebrows at the wording.

"I mean, not _that_ thingy — thingy as in whatever you came to Central City to do. I mean, the 'sight-seeing'." Barry's face changed, as if he'd had a sudden thought. "You guys didn't elope or anything, right? Because I have a bet going with Iris that you guys are going to stay engaged for another year before getting around to the whole wedding thing, and I _really_ don't want to lose my Playstation-in-the-bedroom rights —"

"Barry," Oliver interrupted. "Still not married. You can keep your Playstation in the bedroom."

Barry let out a breath of relief. "So what was it?"

Oliver inclined his head, turning to look at the waiting train. It was out of Oliver's depth, seeking Barry's advice on — well — anything. But for this, Oliver did want to know, ever since he'd had his first real glimpse of Connor. The fathers in his life — Robert Queen not being exempt — had been imperfect. Malcolm Merlyn, Felicity's father, Roy's…all unhealthy relationships that poisoned more than they cured. Barry was one of the few exceptions he could think of, a son who loved his father — dearly.

"What would you do," he said, "if you found out that your dad was a vigilante?"

Barry was immediately wary. "Is this a _Luke I am your father_ moment?"

Oliver only looked at him, and Barry's expression shifted — from confusion to surprise, then back to confusion again.

"Does — does Felicity know?" he asked, with a glance over his shoulder.

Oliver nodded. "She was the one who told me. It's a really long story."

"I'm sure," Barry said, looking a little faint. "Is that why you came? To see…your kid?"

"Something like that." Oliver inhaled, searching for the words to express what he was feeling. "I'm not ready to see him — not yet. But I do want to. There's just…this _fear_ , at the back of my mind, that he won't understand. He won't accept what I am — what I do — and that he'll hate me for not being there for him."

"Because you only just found out?" Barry said, pointedly. "What about the fact that you're working _overtime_ to save a city? Trust me, Iris says I still have the mental age of a twelve-year-old, but if I found out that my dad was a hero — I'd be pretty psyched."

"What kind of hero isn't there to see you grow up?" Oliver asked, flatly.

Barry looked at Oliver for what seemed like a long time before he spoke again. "Look, I know you have a real close relationship with guilting yourself, and I _can't_ speak for your son. But I _can_ tell you what my dad told me, when he found out who I was."

Oliver waited.

"My dad told me two things. He warned me first that the world was a dangerous place, and that he wanted me to be careful. The second thing —" Barry took a deep breath, his gaze never wavering "— was that he couldn't be more proud of me. Earlier today, you told me to keep faith in others. Well I'm telling you to have faith now — in your son."

_Oliver — I know._

_There's nothing more_ to _say…except that I could_ not _be more proud._

A faint smile crossed Oliver's face at the thought of his mother's words — and his sister's — when they'd found out about him, and who he was. So full of forgiveness, and —

"— faith," Oliver repeated.

Barry nodded. "Faith."

After a beat, Oliver nodded too. He briefly considered shaking Barry's hand, but somehow, a hug felt more appropriate. And that was what he did. He stepped forward and hugged Barry, without preamble or explanation, because it wasn't needed.

"Thank you, Barry," he said.

Barry grinned. "Anytime."

* * *

"You sure you guys don't need a ride from the train station?" Diggle asked.

He could hear the rattle of the train in the background, the raspy phone signal that inexplicably went hand in hand with railway travel. "No, we'll meet you and Roy back at the Foundry," Oliver answered. "Did we miss anything?"

"Your sister didn't burn down the Foundry, if that's what you're asking."

Oliver laughed, shortly. "Very funny."

Diggle looked around when he heard the front door open. He mouthed a greeting to his wife, but she didn't seem to hear. As he watched, Lyla moved silently towards the dining table, pulled out a chair with methodical calmness, and lowered herself into it as if she was trying not to shatter.

"Oliver?" he said. "I'll call you back."

Diggle hung up and approached his wife. "Lyla," he said, laying a hand on her shoulder. "What's wrong?"

Lyla stared at him with her hand over her mouth. "You need to be sitting for this, Johnny," she said, softly.

Diggle pulled out a chair opposite from her and sat down. "The meeting?" he guessed.

"The meeting," she agreed. "Except it wasn't a meeting, because everything was already decided long — _long —_ before I'd even walked through the door. Damien Darhk —" Her hand clenched into a white-knuckled fist on the table. "I knew he was a snake like Waller but I still let him bite me."

"You're not making any sense." Diggle slid his hand around Lyla's, gently working her fingers loose. "You said the surveillance initiative hadn't even gotten to planning stage —" he trailed off at the sight of Lyla's face.

She shook her head, slowly. "I didn't know — Trevor didn't know — the higher-ups must have given Darhk the green light _months_ ago. It was one of Amanda's projects, top secret, something I should have seen and shut down if I'd had her Alpha drive. But I didn't — and it came back to bite me. Today was just a progress update, because the Sentinel Initiative already has its first prototype — hidden God knows where — and Darhk's heading it up." A humorless smile flickered across her face. "Five of the highest-ranking officials in ARGUS command and the United States Government — and they all told me that I was either with them or against them. No in-betweens. Funny — I thought being ARGUS meant we dealt in the gray, but suddenly it's all so black and white to them."

Diggle went very still. "So what happened? Did you quit?"

Lyla shook her head. "I don't trust Darhk. The man's a genius with computers and risk assessment, and he's been with ARGUS for almost twenty years, but there's something about him…"

"Cold," Diggle said, because he knew. He knew what Lyla's gut was telling her because his had told him the same. That Damien Darhk wasn't someone to be trusted. "You don't trust him because he reminds you of Amanda."

"With more of her failings than her strengths." Lyla nodded. "Which is why I have to stay on…for as long as possible. I still outrank him, even if it's only on paper."

"What's his endgame?" Diggle asked, already thinking ahead. "What does this — Sentinel Initiative mean?"

"For everyone?" Lyla said, flatly. "The truth. ARGUS wants to watch over the United States of America from above. The Sentinel Initiative isn't just a surveillance ship — it's a fleet of carriers launching prototype surveillance drones on a larger scale than we've ever seen. The higher-ups are so paranoid because of what happened — what keeps happening — on US soil that they want the planes constantly in the air and on the lookout for threats. They told us that the aircraft won't exceed recon purposes, but I don't believe that's true. ARGUS already has one of the most comprehensive surveillance systems in the world — _covert_ systems — without an army of those goddamn ships in the sky."

"ARGUS never shows the weapon in their hand," said Diggle. "This doesn't feel like ARGUS talking, not anymore."

Lyla nodded. "I'm starting to think that the real ARGUS — good or bad — died along with Amanda, and whatever it is today…whatever it's going to be…is something even more dangerous. The specs are one of the reasons I'm staying — I need to know that those planes won't be armed. But I think we have to be prepared, Johnny."

"For what?"

Lyla lifted her head from her hands. "ARGUS isn't a friend anymore," she said, heavily. "And when it turns on us — I won't be able to stop it."

* * *

Felicity's mind wouldn't shut up. Despite a pretty exhausting day trip and a healthy dose of crime-fighting after said day trip, Felicity still couldn't sleep. There was no reason why she was still awake. Even Oliver — who apparently never slept — was dead to the world.

She tentatively raised her head off his chest, peering at him in the darkness. Comatose, and she didn't want to wake him.

Maybe it was Cisco's helpful contribution to the ORACLE riddle — unhackable passwords and whatever that meant. Maybe it was the residual excitement of her nefarious reunite-father-and-son plan going off without a hitch. Maybe, maybe, maybe…

Felicity scrubbed a hand across her face and sat up. She didn't know what she'd planned on doing, and she sat on the edge of the bed for what seemed like ages before deciding — on some unknown impulse — what she wanted to do.

Her bare feet sunk into the rug as she padded over to her dresser and flicked on one of the old lamps. The bulb was tiny and sepia-yellow enough not to wake Oliver from his sleep, but enough to see by as Felicity crouched in front of the lowest drawer. She rooted around in the pile of sweaters she never wore until she found the edges of an old tin box, near the back of the drawer.

Felicity sat with it in her lap for longer than she probably should have, especially since there was no lock on the box. But she needed to. There was no lock because the contents were enough to make sure she rarely opened it — unless she was having a night like this one. Those nights when there was something ineffable preventing her from slipping into oblivion, a gripe that her subconscious was being cagey about sharing.

With a silent nod, Felicity set the box on the floor and curled her legs beneath her. Off came the lid, and she sifted through the miscellaneous contents, going slow at first like she was testing the waters. A faded plane ticket, Vegas to Boston (her first time out of home), Boston to Starling (her first, terrible job interview), a rusted copy of her apartment key (the first crappy apartment that she'd called her own). Felicity made a face at her first QC photo ID, which was purely terrible, smiled at a ticket stub from the Starling-Central express train (one of the many from Barry's comatose days), and rolled a wine cork around in her hand — from the first-ever bottle of wine Oliver had given her.

The cork was still in her hand when her fingertips brushed against glossy paper.

_Ah._

Felicity had reached the bottom of the memories, the beginning of everything. She bit her lip as she extracted a shuffled pile of polaroids, turning them towards the low light. The photo at the top of the pile was of herself, probably fifteen — still dark-haired, wearing clothes that didn't fit because she couldn't afford to care, sitting cross-legged at the kitchen table with a bulky (God, did computers even come that big anymore?) laptop that had more duct tape on it than surface area. The photos went in reverse order, so Felicity watched herself shrink down, from awkward teenager to slightly-less-awkward child. Donna was in most of them, surprisingly unchanged, both her smile and her manner of dress. There were photos of the two of them in strobe-bright bowling alleys (she remembered those nachos drenched in orange cheese)…at the swings (Donna cuddling her daughter as another parent held the camera)…Felicity (wearing her first pair of glasses) sitting on that awful lumpy couch with a slice of yellow birthday cake on her knees…

One by one Felicity went through the photos just as intently as she'd gone through the photos of Connor with Oliver, studying them as if to understand…why she was — who she was. It was always a shock to her when, at the bottom of the stack, she'd come across the last photo. Always at the bottom, a little surprise even though she knew it was coming.

It was her parents' wedding photo. Well, a faded what-was-left version of it, anyway. Felicity had studied the photo of her parents so many times that it was a wonder she still found new details to look at. It was a full body shot, so Felicity could see that they'd were standing in front of a church that no longer existed (it'd been torn down after Donna moved away with Felicity), a small, spur-of-the-moment thing because Donna had been three months pregnant with her daughter. Still, a small baby bump hadn't stopped Donna from wearing a skintight white dress, all lace and bare arms, heels that made her ability to stand still nothing short of amazing.

Her mom was beaming wide enough to compensate for the solemn bridegroom. Sometimes Felicity wondered if he'd already decided to leave, if the wedding hadn't meant much to him because he knew that it wasn't going to last. The dark-haired man in the photo was nothing short of a stranger to her, no matter how many times she tried to make out his features. All she could tell was that his hair was the color hers used to be (a brown so dark that it was very nearly black), that he was tall (taller than Donna), broad-shouldered (again, based on an estimate), and wiry. Nothing like a Disney prince, more like a spy — disappearing easily into whispers and mystery. The fading and the distance made looking at the photo feel like peering through a dusty glass at a pencil sketch, like barely anything at all.

She heard Oliver stir, and quickly returned everything to the box, pushing it into the pile of sweaters she never wore.

"Felicity?" said Oliver, sitting up on one elbow, his voice husky from sleep.

Felicity turned out the only light and climbed back into his arms, pressing her cheek to his pulse like a child desperate for reassurance.

"What's wrong?" he asked, stroking her face, her hair.

Felicity shook her head. Nothing — because it was. The photo was nothing, nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Madly scattering plot confetti all over the place.
> 
> *For those of you who watch Outlander*: DID JAMIE JUST START A FIGHT USING A "YO MAMA" JOKE? DID THOSE EVEN EXIST IN THE 18TH CENTURY?! Oh Claire, so silly. Tsk Tsk. Never underestimate a teenage girl who made out with your husband ONCE and now thinks she has permanent rights to his disco stick.
> 
> Another one of my fun sister stories: So we're sitting on the couch contemplating what to watch next, and I tell her that the latest Outlander is out, and she says: "Wait what that's so quick — how come the wait seems so much longer for Arrow?"  
> Because it's damn addictive, that's why.  
> I have successfully converted my sister. *happy dance*


	29. Sex & Breakfast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone still alive after 3x19? As promised, updating after the episode. Oh, and ruwithmeguys - HAPPY BIRTHDAY (you said it was Thursday, right?). Many happy returns, sorry that The Fuckening didn't coincide with your birthday. That would have been truly awesome - and heart-attack-inducing.
> 
> Yeesh these chapters really went long. I think that's why the word count is rapidly catching up on You're His Hope even though the chapter numbers haven't. Sneaky, aren't I? I think I'm also going to need a chart documenting who has scars where at this point. So confusing.
> 
> Full disclosure, I wrote these with a minor head injury. Long story short, I was chasing my cat under a desk and decided to attempt (emphasis on attempt) a cool slidey move and ended up slamming my skull into a solid wood panel. On the plus side, the cat (his name's Batman, btw) did immediately run out in response to the grievous bodily harm I inflicted upon myself. On the negative, I have a painful lump on my head which hurts like OW.

A narrow shaft of sunlight filtered in through a minute gap between the drawn curtains, catching dust motes in their swirling dance through the air. Based on the tiny triangle of pale blue sky she could see, the world outside was being uncharacteristically sunny. A sign that it was going to be a good day…among other things.

"Not that I'm complaining," Felicity said, tracing aimless patterns in the masterpiece that was Oliver's naked back, "but isn't it a little indecent to start with — _that_ — first thing in the morning?"

Oliver's mouth was otherwise preoccupied, but she felt the subtle increase of pressure around her hips, where his hands were firmly anchored to keep her still — well, as still as she could manage anyway.

Felicity let her head roll back against the pillow and gave herself up to Oliver with a lazy smile. As far as morning greetings went, this was a pretty good one.

Languid ease gradually escalated into urgency, but Oliver remained seemingly oblivious to her grasping at his shoulders…or the sounds she was making. On the contrary, his hands didn't shift from her hips, nor did his mouth — on her, so _very_ much on her — relent on its exploration.

" _Oliver_ ," she gasped, the only word she could get out when he was doing — _that_.

Felicity was nearly there when Oliver lifted his head and met her eyes across the length of the bed. By then, she was breathing hard and finding it oddly difficult to use her words.

"Should I stop?" he asked, his thumbs stroking slow half-circles on her inner thighs.

Felicity turned her face into the pillow, taking refuge in the sensation of cool cotton against her burning cheeks. "Don't stop," she whispered, and was lost for speech when Oliver bent his head to her again.

A while later, she drifted out of her doze at the feeling of him kissing her stomach. "Happy birthday, Felicity," he said, softly.

* * *

Felicity emerged pink-cheeked and thoroughly awake from her shower to find the promising aroma of breakfast wafting in through the bedroom door. Perks of having an open-plan kitchen — she could smell pancakes from a mile away.

Her bare feet were soundless on the floorboards, and Oliver didn't look around when she leaned her elbows on the kitchen counter to watch him cook — a rare sight, given the fact that they were running late most mornings and ate their dinners (takeout, way too much takeout) in the Foundry.

But today was different. They had — against all expectations — all the time in the world. Especially since Oliver had made sure to wake her nearly an hour early (using some highly creative methods to boot).

Even in a plain T-shirt, Oliver's broad shoulders were delightfully contoured and utterly fascinating to watch as he went through the normal motions of making breakfast.

"Felicity," he said, without turning. "You're hovering."

"I can't hover on my birthday?" Felicity asked, circling around to his spot at the stove.

Oliver looked over his shoulder at her, a faint smile on his face. "I didn't say that."

"Mm." Felicity wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her nose in his shirt. "You smell amazing, by the way. Butter makes a nice change from C4." She peered around Oliver's shoulder at the perfect dollops of pancake batter, just golden-browning away in the pan. "Is that cooked?"

Oliver eased the spatula under one of the pancakes and smoothly flipped it over. "No, I'm going to make you eat raw batter on your birthday," he answered, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

Felicity hooked the porcelain mixing bowl towards her and licked pancake batter off the whisk, eyeing Oliver's T-shirt and wondering if there was a polite way to ask one's fiancé to cook without a shirt. "You can make me eat anything as long as you're shirtless," she muttered, without thinking.

Oliver laughed, and slid the pancakes golden brown and steaming hot onto a plate already stacked with them. "If we do that," he said, turning in her arms. "We'll both be late for work."

Felicity leaned back against the counter, her legs crossed at the ankle. "I'd like to see you explain that to Walter," she said, teasingly. "I'm sure he'll be _very_ impressed."

Oliver's hands were deliciously warm around her waist, the heat from his broad palms reminding her that she wasn't wearing a whole lot beneath her robe. Without taking her eyes off Oliver, Felicity shrugged, and felt the sleeve of her robe dip with the movement of her arm, sliding off a pale shoulder completely.

Oliver licked his lips — a gesture that was practically obscene coming from him — but didn't move. "The food'll get cold," he murmured.

Felicity pressed her bare knee against his thigh. "I'll eat every last bite," she promised, tipping her head back in anticipation of his kiss.

Which didn't come. Because Oliver stepped back to turn off the stove, leaving her to wonder if there was a sad whistle noise to describe being half-naked in front of her fiancé and ignored.

Then —

"You'd better," he said, and suddenly Felicity was in his arms and he was lifting her up — a hand in the small of her back and the other gliding across her thigh — guiding her legs around his waist as he carried her towards the bedroom.

Felicity swore they'd made it about two steps before there was a knock on the door.

"It's — _mmf_ — probably just — Mrs. Fernandez —" she said, between kisses. "She's looking — for her cat — again — _ah_ —" Oliver had worked his way down to her neck, and she clutched at his shoulders, shuddering at the sensation of his lips on her pulse.

The knocking was starting to sound awfully hammer-like.

One hell of a mood-killer.

Breathing heavily, Oliver lifted his head from her clavicle. "Answer?" he said, hoarsely.

Felicity groaned and slid down the length of his body — landing unsteadily on her feet. "Fine." She yanked the stubborn ties on her robe closed as she hurried to the front door. "But as soon as Mrs. Fernandez goes away, we are powering through!" she said, and wrenched the door open.

For an excruciatingly long moment, Felicity stood frozen in her own doorway, wondering if the universe needed a patch update for its sense of humor.

She'd thought that a neighbor knocking on the door was a mood killer.

As it turned out, there was a better one waiting for her.

"Mom?" Felicity said, weakly.

Donna Smoak's mouth fell open in a bright pink _O_ at the sight of her only daughter, and Felicity nearly lost her hearing at the deafening (and hopefully joyful) shriek that ensued, a shriek amplified by the fact that her mother had grabbed her in a crushing two-armed hug and didn't seem close to letting go.

"My baby girl!" she squealed. "Happy birthday!"

Felicity stumbled back from the tottering weight of her mother (and her mother's non-weight-supporting stilettos), still unable to believe that it was seven-thirty on the morning of her twenty-sixth birthday…and her mother was in Starling City.

* * *

"Felicity," said Donna, wide-eyed over a mouthful of pancakes. "He can _cook_."

"He can also _hear_ you," Felicity muttered, trying not to combust with embarrassment right then and there. Even though Oliver was making coffee on the other side of the counter, she didn't doubt his auditory capacity — at all.

She self-consciously tamped down the more unruly aspects of her hair. It was still damp from her shower, and therefore unable to reflect what she'd been doing-slash-about-to-do when her mom showed up.

This was high school — so, incredibly high school — like Oliver was her first boyfriend and had been invited over for the "audition" (AKA suffer through an embarrassingly affectionate dissection of his personal life). Then again, most moms didn't really wear skin-tight neon pink cocktail dresses with platform stilettos, so maybe it wasn't that high school. More…B-grade porno.

Donna winked at her (a little unnecessarily, given the utter lack of subtlety present in the entire exchange) and cut into her pancakes with gusto. "Oliver, I'm so sorry for interrupting — I didn't know that you were going to make such a _nice_ birthday breakfast for my beautiful girl—"

"— mom —"

"It's no trouble," said Oliver, coming around the counter with the coffeepot in hand. "Coffee?"

Donna looked like she was about to burst with _something_ (pride, hopefully just pride) when Oliver asked if she wanted milk and sugar, like it was all she'd ever wanted in a son-in-law. Basic manners and the ability to make caffeinated drinks.

"Oliver, you're in such good shape," she said, patting Oliver's bicep — which in all fairness was showing because of the short sleeves. "How does a CEO find time to work out?"

Felicity froze, partly because she knew Oliver was a terrible liar, partly because she was imagining him doing the salmon ladder (shirtless) in the Foundry.

"There's a…gym in my office building," Oliver said, with a glance in Felicity's direction. "I go during my lunch break."

"I could never work up the discipline," Donna said breathily, without removing her hand from Oliver's arm. "I work a table at Caesar's and there's this CEO guy who always comes in…"

Felicity lost track of the conversation sometime after that — maybe it was a mini-stroke or some kind of subconscious-enforced blackout, but before she knew it, Oliver was circling back to her side of the counter, having pried himself (very politely) from Donna's nostalgic reminiscing about the various patrons of her table at Caesar's.

"You okay?" she asked, very quietly. "I saw the bicep squeeze."

Oliver set her mug down on the table and pressed a kiss into her hair. "Never better," he said, smiling.

Felicity felt a little better with Oliver sitting next to her, even though all he did was drink his coffee and look like he was trying not to laugh. Still, as long as he wasn't running for the hills, everything was (would be?) good.

Hopefully.

"I was going to send a car to the airport," said Felicity. "I thought your flight wasn't for another three hours. At least. I triple-checked."

Donna nodded vigorously. "They had an earlier flight, and I thought — why not spend more time with my baby girl on her special day?" she said, waving her fork around with reckless abandon, given the piece of pancake still on the other end. "I mean — this might be your last birthday as a single woman! Sure, who knows when the two of you will get around to setting a date, but _if_ you do get married before Felicity's next birthday, she'll have to settle down — that includes you too, Oliver, but I'm not worried about you. And I know, you still have the bachelorette party to let loose, but —"

"— _mom_ ," Felicity said, before her mother could get into the minutia of _letting loose_. "Oliver and I both have to work, so you'll just be by yourself in the apartment all day."

"Oh, that's okay," said Donna. "I'll just stop by the police precinct and see Quentin. I texted him that I was coming to town and he said —" She pulled out her phone and started to tap on the screen "— _emoji winky-face_ , and oh, look at that, a heart and a kiss! Isn't he such a sweet man?"

Oliver choked quietly on his coffee, and Felicity had to hit him a few times on the back while he regained his composure. She wasn't feeling all that well herself, even though she'd only had half a pancake.

Oliver's voice — when he eventually found the words — sounded like sandpaper. "Went down the wrong way," he rasped.

Felicity heard a phone buzz and practically lunged for it.

"It's mine," said Oliver, and Felicity passed him the phone, hoping it was some kind of Foundry excuse (unlikely) that encompassed the both of them.

It wasn't.

Oliver frowned. "My morning meeting got bumped up by a half-hour," he said, sliding off his chair. "I have to go — I'm so sorry, Donna. I'll see you tonight at the party."

Felicity wasn't about to let him go that easily. "Mom, why don't you finish your breakfast?" she said, easing herself back onto the ground like she was trying not to startle a skittish animal in the room. "I'll be — two — five…teen minutes."

"But sweetie, you barely touched your pancakes!"

"Felicity," said Oliver (not helpfully at all), "it's fine, Diggle's coming to pick me up —"

"I'll eat after I get ready." Felicity drained her coffee (ow, ow) and set it down so quickly that the mug was still rattling when she all but shoved Oliver into the bedroom, closing the door firmly behind them.

"Felicity, what are you doing?" said Oliver, reaching past her for the doorknob. "Your mom's outside —"

He never got to finish the sentence, because Felicity jumped into his arms and crushed her mouth to his, in a highly unceremonious continuation of what they'd been doing before Donna showed up.

" _Felicity_ ," he said, when they eventually had to come up for air. "We're going to be late."

Felicity shushed him, already fumbling with the hem of his shirt. "My birthday, remember? I'll be quick — I promise."

* * *

"Bye, Oliver!" said Donna, planting a big _mwah_ kiss on Oliver's cheek at the door.

"I'm so sorry to leave like this," he said, true to perfect future-son-in-law form. "But —"

"Work calls, I know, I know." Donna waved an airy hand. "You and Felicity are so similar. Always working. You two should find a weekend and elope — oh, it'll be so great — I know a minister in Vegas who'll marry you in a hot tub, if that's what you —"

"— Oliver has a chlorine allergy," Felicity interrupted, miming a throat-slashing motion in response to Oliver's _what?_ look. "And he hates swimming. You know, five years on an island, shipwrecked — boats — not great. We're working on it…with a therapist — Dr…Aqua—Aqualung." She coughed, and parted the curtains to check the sidewalk. "Diggle here yet?"

"See you later, Donna." Oliver smiled at her and steered Felicity towards the door. "Dr. Aqualung?" he murmured.

"It was either that or Witch Doctor Shyamalan," she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Spoiler alert: my mom is going to keep up the subtle hints about the wedding, so maybe we should — I don't know — City Hall it?"

Oliver nodded, tucking his phone into his jacket pocket. "That — I'd be happy to do."

"Don't tell your sister," Felicity said, gingerly. "After tonight, I have a feeling there's going to be more surprise parties down the line, and if we say _City Hall_ and _wedding_ in the same sentence…"

"…we'll be kidnapped, thrown on a plane and saying our vows in a French castle, surrounded by family and friends and guests we don't know," Oliver finished, darkly. "I am _not_ telling Speedy until it is absolutely too late to do anything about it."

"So — the morning of, then?" she said, and they both laughed.

Funny how neither of them were considering the third option of overt lying…since they were both so phenomenally bad at it (Dr. Aqualung, really?). Felicity was still shaking her head when she adjusted Oliver's tie at the door and smoothed down his lapels.

"This morning was fun," she said, smiling shyly at the memory. "Thank you."

Oliver smiled back, and gathered her close for a kiss that made her feel like they were very much alone, one that left her breathless for air.

"Happy birthday, Felicity," he said.

Felicity nodded, leaning her forehead on his. "See you at the party?"

Oliver cupped her face in his hands and kissed her again. "See you at the party."

* * *

Felicity's eyes were still watering from when she'd poked herself in the earlobe with her earring. But she was going to be _so_ heinously late unless she left soon, and she didn't want to stretch Ray's friendly acceptance of her odd working habits by showing up late — even if it _was_ her birthday.

"Mom, I left the number for the car on the counter and I texted it to your phone, so whenever you're ready to go, just call the driver and he'll pull up, okay? Mom. Mom?" Felicity poked her head out of the bathroom, wondering at the uncharacteristic silence. "Mom?"

Donna was sitting on the couch, looking down at something in her lap.

"Mom — everything okay?" she asked.

Donna started, as if she'd been in deep thought, and patted the cushion with a smile. "Felicity, honey. Sit down — I want to tell you something," she said.

"What's wrong?" said Felicity, immediately climbing onto the couch beside her mother. She noted, vaguely, that there was a flat white box on her mom's lap, but somehow it didn't seem important, not when her mom looked like she was about to cry. "Is it Det—Captain Lance? Did something happen?"

Donna waved her arms. "What? Of course not — no — it's about you…and Oliver."

"Oh." Felicity found herself twisting the ring around her finger. "Mom, he's a good man, and I love him, I thought you did too — a little more than _love_ , actually —"

Donna took her hands and kissed them like she used to do when Felicity was smaller. "I know you love him," she said, gently. "That's I need to ask you something, because I'm your mother, and I need to hear it from you."

"Okay," Felicity said, still wary. "Is this about setting the date?"

"No, it's about something much more important. Now, Felicity, you know how things ended with me…and your dad. Not great, but I always thought that it hurt you more than it hurt me. I mean, I had a daughter to raise — long shifts everyday and you waiting for me back at home — sometimes it felt like I had too much to do…to even _think_ about the way your dad walked out on us. But you," she stroked her daughter's cheek, "you were always on your own, and when you started working on your computers, I was so worried, because computers were always your dad's thing and I didn't want you to be sad doing what you loved. I know it doesn't make sense, but I worried then, and I still worry now…about what your father did — _does_ — to you."

Felicity shook her head, squeezing Donna's hands until she could feel the numerous rings dig into her skin. "Mom, you did everything you could to raise me, and I know I don't thank you enough, but I owe you — so much. Dad — dad's half of my DNA, but that's it. After the way he hurt us, he doesn't deserve _anything_ — not even this. So don't worry. He can't hurt me. I won't let him."

Donna's smile was still unutterably sad, and Felicity felt herself precariously close to tears, because she was thinking about the photos in her drawer — in that box under that awful pile of sweaters. The hole in her identity, the questions at the back of her mind, and that terrible upside-down world she'd only recently put the right way up.

"I know, honey," said Donna, because she did. She'd always been able to see right through her only daughter. "I'm so, so sorry."

Felicity shook her head again, vehemently. "Not your fault," she said, thickly. "But what does any of this have to do with Oliver? He knows about my dad — I told him."

Donna kissed her hands again. "I asked about Oliver because I want to know, right now, if you think there's a chance he'll do what your dad did." She held on, firmly, despite Felicity opening her mouth to object. There was a steely glint in Donna's eyes that Felicity had only seen a few times before — like when they were both being held at gunpoint, and her mom had told her psychotic ex-boyfriend Cooper in no uncertain terms that she believed Felicity could kick his ass.

"Tell me now — and don't lie, I'm your mother — tell me if that boy is going to hurt you," she said. "Because if you think there's even the _slightest_ chance that he'll walk out on you like your father — then you have to end this. You are a smart, beautiful, independent woman, and you deserve so much better than a man stupid enough to leave you."

Felicity didn't even know how to respond, because right at the root of her confusion was the inconceivable idea that Oliver was going to leave her. After everything they'd been through, together, that he would just…walk. Almost-deaths, actual death, the League and Ra's al Ghul's brainwashing, memory loss, Sandra Hawke's news, Malcolm Merlyn's scheming — even Oliver's own identity crisis — every single thing the universe had thrown at them, they'd weathered.

It really put the possibility of him leaving in perspective, and Felicity found herself smiling, because running through her head — along with all the suffering, hurts and death — was everything Oliver Queen had ever said to her, about love, about them, about the uncertain tomorrows and the even less concrete future.

About the one thing he _was_ certain of.

_I do know two things._

_I will love you — scars or no scars — broken or whole._

_I love you, Felicity, whatever happens next._

Felicity blinked the tears from her eyes and smiled, a smile that was…absolutely incandescent, and completely, recklessly, trusting — because she knew in her heart of hearts that Oliver would never leave her, just as surely as she would never leave him.

"Mom, I've known Oliver for four years, and we took our own sweet time getting together, I can tell you that. Neither of us are ever going to fit into the category of _simple_ and _uncomplicated_ , and I can't explain everything about us, because I'll be so incredibly late for work if I do, but I _know_. For sure, be-all end-all sure. I _know_ that he's nothing like dad, and I know that I love him, mom," she said, slowly. "And that he loves me. The two of us — we're not going anywhere."

Donna was most definitely crying by now, and she caught Felicity in a rib-crushing hug, rocking her from side to side as she whispered: "Oh, thank God."

"Thank God?" she said. "What was with the breakup speech?"

"Hon- _ey_ ," said Donna, chuckling as she dabbed at her eyes. "I know you've known Oliver for four years. I also know how he likes his morning coffee, how he makes that weird noise when he reads, and how he drives you crazy sometimes when he tries to clean up after you — why is that?"

Felicity picked sheepishly at the hem of her skirt. "Because I told you," she said.

Donna nodded. "Because you told me. But what you didn't tell me — what you _never_ had to tell me — was that you've loved him for longer than you knew. Way, _way_ before you even used the word _boyfriend_."

"What?" Felicity said, blankly.

Donna laughed again, reaching up to hold Felicity's face. "You should have heard the way you talked about him on the phone, like he was your morning cup of coffee, like he — he was your favorite song on the radio, the one that makes getting up in the morning okay — especially since you _hate_ mornings." Donna stroked Felicity's cheek. "You talked about him like he was your _sun_ , and even though you were always on the phone I could tell, no matter how bad your day was, that you'd lit up like _Christmas_ when you talked about this…Oliver Queen. And I thought — every time —" She sighed, her hands falling back into her lap. " _I hope he realizes how lucky he is that my daughter's in love with him_ , because you don't fall easily, do you? You're not like me. I love and move on. But you — you always felt, so deeply. When you love, you hurt with them, and when they're happy, you _glow_. I was so glad that you found someone to be crazy about, but I was _so_ scared that he was going to hurt you. That's why I am — _beyond_ — happy that Oliver loves you, and that you love him too. Because you may think that he's your sun, but that boy looks at you like you're his universe, and after everything you've been through — you deserve someone who thinks of you as his everything, who will _never_ , ever dream of hurting you."

Felicity was completely, unashamedly crying when she went on her knees in front of Donna and hugged her mother without a word — because everything had already been said.

Except one thing.

"I love you, mom," said Felicity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God you guys are way too clever. Or I just completely lack subtlety. I think it's both. Anyways, EVERYTHING WILL TURN OUT AS IT WILL.
> 
> I cracked. I watched 1x18 before 3x19 and the whole Ray Palmer storyline managed to do the unthinkable. It ruined The Flash for me. Seriously. The writers were selling the fact that Felicity gets her nemesis on the show (first of all, why not Arrow?) and the whole thing was mulched in favor of Ray's stupid suit, which was pure CGI crap, if I may say so myself. if that's not enough the problematic aspects of Ray's character get played off as jokes. The episode would have been 2000% better with 100% less Ray Palmer. That's all I have to say.


	30. Fireflies & Fairytales

"God, I'm going to look like I crawled out of a grave when I get to work," Felicity muttered, blotting at her eyes with some tissue.

"You look fine, honey," said Donna, picking at a knot in her daughter's hair. "And you're engaged now, so screw them — who needs to look nice when you have someone like Oliver, who's seen your morning face, by the way?"

"Thanks," Felicity said. "I think."

" _And_ before I forget — you need to open your birthday present." Donna lifted the box with a bright smile. "Open it!"

Felicity pulled the box onto her was frantically trying to recall Donna's description of it — the words _lace_ and _sparkly_ came to mind, but not much else. Oh, and given the way her mom's dresses usually turned out — _super revealing_ was a very real possibility.

"You got me a dress?" she said, cautiously. "Mom, I thought you were kidding. I have dresses, you didn't have to get me one — you flying out here is enough of a birthday present already."

"Don't worry, I called Thea about it, and she sent me so many options —" Donna shook her head breathlessly, a hand on her chest. "I know that she's running a nightclub, but if she ever got bored, she could be the next _Vogue_ lady with the sunglasses."

"Thea?" Felicity said, both surprised and somewhat reassured.

Donna clapped her hands. "I'm so excited to see it on you. Go on — open it, open it!"

Felicity slipped the lid off the box and was legitimately surprised at the apparent lack of cutouts and translucency. Tentatively — because there was something about beautiful things that always made her feel like she wasn't meant to be looking at them — she picked the dress up by the straps and lifted it out of the box.

The dress shimmered, slipping soundlessly past her legs and pooling at their feet. It was sleek and narrow, all gauze and whispering folds, dark, brassy gold in the bodice tapering to pale — almost yellow — in the skirt. But when she turned it towards the window, it caught the stray sunbeams and turned the soft golden glow of candlelight.

"Oh, mom," she said. "It's beautiful."

* * *

The computer gave a laconic bleep in response to Felicity's technological prodding, and leaned back in her chair with a faint sigh. She'd created a simulation for ORACLE on her company computer (the original being locked safely in the Foundry), which had just informed her that her version of a hack for the unhackable was a no-go. Apparently a little bit of birthday luck was too much to ask for. She slid her steaming glass of coffee (because they'd run out of mugs) from the desk and sipped, squinting against the late afternoon glare.

"Hey."

Felicity looked around with a faint start, her brain still chasing down the elusively unhackable password to ORACLE. But she shook herself at the sight of Ray standing in her office.

"Ray," she said, getting up from her chair. "Hi — what's up?"

"Oh…I just wanted to say happy birthday," he said, rocking slightly on his heels, hands in his pockets. "And to thank you for the party invite. As you know, I have no social life, so it saved me from another night in my lab at home — or, if I wanted to change it up — my lab in here."

Felicity laughed, perched on the edge of her desk. "No worries — I'm glad you'll be there, adding to the…twenty-five guests I actually know by name." She scratched absently at an old scar above her eyebrow. "Sorry, by the way, that yours got lost in the mail — I didn't even know Thea was throwing the party until last week, and when I finally saw the guest list, it said that you never RSVP-ed, turns out snail mail is _a lot_ less reliable than I thought —"

"— so it wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that Oliver's younger sister still thinks of me as the guy who stole her family's company?" Ray said, mildly. "Don't worry — it's not like she hacked every digital device I own and put porcupine flatulence on them…I don't think."

Felicity was only half-kidding when she did a quick mental risk assessment. "Thea's not a hacker." _Just a vigilante, like you._ (Not the point) "Just a nightclub-manager-slash-mastermind-party-planner."

Ray looked impressed. "Quite a combination. You're, uh, marrying into a pretty amazing family."

Felicity smiled and glanced down at her ring. "Thank you for saying that."

"So — uh — are you accepting presents yet?" Ray asked, and she heard a faint rattle as his hand withdrew from his pocket, holding a small flat box.

Felicity immediately started back, hands raised and awkward mode on. "Whoa, Ray, you didn't have to. I mean, you're my boss — it's kinda weird that you're giving me a gift."

"Well, Felicity, I really wanted to," he said, at a comparable level of awkward. "And while we're on the subject — it's kinda weird that my VP invited me to her birthday party."

Felicity looked at him through her hands. " _Birthday party_ makes me sound like I'm about twelve."

"Don't be embarrassed. Twelve's a good age," Ray answered, without missing a beat. "Anyway — happy birthday. I _insist_ that you take your present, because I'm actually kinda excited to see you wear it."

After a semi-long staring contest, Felicity reluctantly took the box from Ray but made no move to unwrap it.

"It's not jewelry, is it?" she asked, eyeing him seriously.

"No, I swear I learned my lesson from the last time I gave you jewelry. It's completely utilitarian."

"Okay." Felicity grinned. "Can I rip the paper?"

Ray waved his hands. "Rip away. I've been told my wrapping skills rival that of a multi-tasking gorilla."

"That's a hidden compliment, because a multi-tasking gorilla has to be pretty smart —"

"Felicity, open your present."

Felicity tore into the wrapping, shaking her head. The box had a Palmer Tech logo on it, and upon opening it, she was (this seemed to be a trend, lately) surprised at what she found. It wasn't jewelry or anything remotely girly.

Which wouldn't have been her anyway.

" _Cool_. Is this a Smartwatch?" she said, inspecting the modified design. "It's not the 7 — you _definitely_ changed the density-light specs —"

"It's a custom design, actually. I kinda made it for you — been working on the specs for a while. May I?" he said, holding out his hand.

Felicity passed him the watch, and looked on as he fastened it around her wrist, where it barely weighed anything at all — which was frankly, amazing, if she took into account everything the watch was capable of. Wi-Fi, computer, email — there was even talk of it replacing a TV remote — all contained in one sleek, black wristwatch.

"It's beautiful," she said, and meant it. "Very _you_ , as far as birthday gifts go."

Ray chuckled. "I upgraded this version to include the latest nanotechnology bots from our medical research division," he explained. "I thought that since you work with the vigilante — which is probably dangerous — you'd need something to go with said danger. Basically, the watch monitors your vitals, and if it senses any spike in — let's say blood pressure, like a —"

"—heart attack," she said. "So it injects the nanites into the bloodstream, which scan and take care of the clot."

"In seconds." Ray nodded. "Which isn't my way of saying that I hope you die of a heart attack — if anything, given how much ice cream and coffee I've seen you consume, it's probably going to be diabetes — anyway — I disabled the auto-injector function because that's something you probably want to decide by yourself. But the nanites don't just work on heart attacks, you can have them scan your body instead of going for a physical, and a bunch of other functions, which you can find…in the instruction manual." Ray trailed off, and made a face. "I'm sorry, it sounded like a really cool idea when I was thinking about what to get you. You don't like it, which is totally fine, I can —"

Felicity held her wrist behind her back before he could take the watch. "No, Ray — it's a cool gift, thank you. Really, really thoughtful," she said, firmly. "Who knows? Your nanites might just end up saving my life."

Ray smiled. "I think I can say with complete sincerity that I hope it never has to."

"Miss Smoak?"

They both looked around at the door.

It was Gerry, looking panicked for some reason. "I'm sorry to interrupt," he said, out of breath. "There's a Caitlin Snow and Cisco Ra—"

There was a deafening crash from the general location of Gerry's desk, and a sweatshirt-and-jeans-clad individual sprang into the doorway, almost knocking Felicity's assistant on his face.

"Sorry, sorry — that was my bad," said Cisco, holding up his hands. "I was just trying to see where the micro DVI was on the new desktop model."

"It's on the lower left quadrant, actually. Better heat-to-surface ratio," said Ray, looking very interested in the new arrival. "Hi — I didn't catch your name."

"Ray, Cisco," said Felicity. "Cisco, Ray —"

"—and Caitlin," said (well) Caitlin, shooting Cisco a severe look. "Felicity — he's _so_ sorry about the mess, I swear he's not doing this on purpose —"

"Holy…" said Cisco, breaking into a wide grin (and completely missing the point). "You're Ray Palmer!"

Ray waved. "Hi."

"Oh." Caitlin seemed like she'd just noticed Ray's presence. "Have I already apologized for the hyperactive toddler in my care?" she said, narrowing her eyes at Cisco.

Ray laughed and strode forward. "A little curiosity never hurt anyone," he said, pumping her hand. "You're Dr. Caitlin Snow — of STAR Labs, right?"

Caitlin blushed. "Y-yes," she said, looking like she wanted to start fanning herself. "I know who you are, of course, Mr. Palmer — I've been following your work in the medical applications of nano-robotics since _forever_. It's so good to meet you in person." She glanced at Felicity, her eyes wide. "That…actually went better than it did in my head."

Felicity gave her a stealthy thumbs up. "Great first impression, Cait."

"Cisco, right?" said Ray, shaking Cisco's hand. "You're interested in computers? Hobby or profession?"

Felicity swore that Cisco's hand had been inching towards his phone for a billionaire selfie, but at the moment he was grinning like he'd been force-fed Prozac. A lot of it. "I'm actually in mechanical engineering at STAR Labs, but computers are like — my cooler…sounding hobby."

"Fantastic. I could give you a tour of our server room, if you wanted, but I sense that you came to see Felicity, not me — the guy you _literally_ just met."

Caitlin gave a high-pitched laugh that forced Felicity to cover her mouth to keep from cracking. "Sorry," she muttered, to no one in particular. "We actually came to pick up the birthday girl."

"You have?" said Felicity, to whom this was brand new information.

"Absolutely." Caitlin grinned. "Your apartment's been commandeered for party preparation —"

"—to which I'm apparently _not_ invited —" Cisco interjected.

"— Thea, your mom, Lyla, Iris, Laurel, me —" Caitlin continued, counting the girls off on her fingers.

"— _again_ , not invited —" Cisco said, loudly.

"—and you," Caitlin finished, with a smile. "Ready to go?"

Felicity glanced at her new watch (which told her it was about thirty minutes early to get off work), then at Ray, her hands put together in a gesture of silent pleading.

Ray shook his head with a smile. " _Go_. Catch you at the party."

Felicity hugged him. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," she said, and went for her coat. "I'll make it up at some point, I promise."

Caitlin already had her bag. "Let's go — Cisco, you too."

"Wait, I'm not invited to the party prep, but I can't stay here with Mr. Palmer either?" Cisco said, indignantly.

"Sorry, Cisco, but it sounds like you're not invited if you have man-parts," said Felicity, who briefly wondered if there'd been a better way to phrase that. "But I thought Thea made sure all the guests hotel rooms. What happened to that?"

"Yeah, but…" Cisco shuffled his feet. "The guys aren't doing any party prep. Ronnie stayed behind to make sure Barry didn't miss his train — which he still missed, by the way — and Oliver apparently has a _job_ …"

Pretending to be busy fastening the buttons on her coat, Felicity muttered, her chin low on her chest, "So go to the Arrow Cave — sorry — Foundry."

Cisco beamed. "Oh yeah. Never thought about that. Okay, let's go."

Caitlin raised her eyebrows at Felicity over Cisco's shoulder. "That worked?"

Felicity grinned and turned back to Ray. "See you later, okay?"

Ray nodded, and held the door open for them. "Will do."

" _Wait_ — wait!" Cisco got his phone out and smiled sheepishly at Ray. "Can I get a picture?"

* * *

This was like Senior Prom all over again. If Felicity had actually _gone_ to Senior Prom, and had a dress, girlfriends to get ready with, and a car waiting to take them to the hotel…

"Those are a lot of _if_ s, Felicity," said Caitlin, brushing powder across the scar above Felicity's eyebrow. "Also — how do you manage to get scars when you're behind the computers all the time?"

Felicity scrunched up her nose, trying to recall. "That, I think," she said, pointing at her eyebrow, "was when the Russian mob decided to shoot up a business meeting I was in. The scars on my back you already know — League of Assassins, very feline-obsessed member —" Felicity indicated a faded white line on her arm "— that was an arrow, also League of Assassins, complete surprise. The bullet scar in my shoulder was when I _actually_ took a bullet for a close friend. Non-metaphorically. Which I'm still proud of."

Caitlin's response was to gather more powder on the brush. "We're going to need more of this," she said.

The front door slammed and they both looked round at the doorway of Felicity's bedroom. "Felicity, honey, your friend Iris just got here!" Donna called.

"Iris — hey!" said Felicity, hurrying across the living room and general chaos of dresses and purses and bags to hug her. "You're —"

"—late, I know." Iris nudged her suitcase into the apartment and shook her head with a long-suffering sigh. "Barry missed his train because of a _work_ thing," she said, tapping her nose to indicate which of Barry's two jobs it was. "I just got in. But I'm here now — so how's the party prep, birthday girl?"

Felicity indicated her flannel bathrobe, semi-powdered face and not-done hair (courtesy of her mom) twisted up in a sophisticated configuration of rollers she wasn't even close to understanding. "Complex matrices and Kerberos encryption — I get," she said. "The subtle art of hairdressing — not so much."

Iris laughed and patted Felicity's hair. "I'm sure you'll look amazing."

"Okay, let's find you a campsite," said Felicity, her arm around Iris's shoulders as they both scanned the chaotic living room. There was a free patch of couch and floor by Laurel, who was doing her makeup. "Laurel! Can Iris —"

"Of course," she said, clearing off the general debris of shoes from the couch. "Iris, right? Your dad's the detective in CCPD?"

Iris clapped her hands. "Right! We met at Mr. Diggle's wedding. Laurel — _hi_ , my dad won't shut up about your dad's filing system…"

Felicity smiled and left them to it. On her way back to the bedroom, she stopped by the bathroom to check on Thea, who was having her hair done by Donna. _The Combination of Supreme Evil_ , as she was starting to call them.

She really needed a better name.

"Hi, honey," said Donna, wielding a curling iron with Nyssa-level precision. "You having a good time?"

Felicity leaned her head on the doorframe. "Having my Senior Prom experience eight years late — totally worth it."

"Oh, those boys were idiots for not asking you. Still are — aren't they, Thea?" said Donna, patting Thea's cheek fondly.

"Well, I'm still dating one, and I try not to leave him alone with sharp objects," Thea deadpanned, talking to their reflections in the bathroom mirror because she couldn't turn without burning herself on the curling iron. "By the way, Felicity — your mom's, like, _crazy_ good at hair."

"Big hair's a great way to get tips," Donna said proudly, flicking her fringe out of her eyes. "I still do my own highlights, and no one can tell the difference. The guys at Caesar's always think I go to that Vidal- _whatever_ place on the Boulevard — I just go along with it."

Felicity and Thea exchanged smiles in the mirror. "I _love_ your mom," said Thea.

"I can tell — thick as thieves already." Felicity shook her head. "Should Oliver and I be worried?"

Thea made a face at Donna. "Depends on whether you take the path of least resistance when it comes to your wedding."

"And that path would be…?" Felicity was almost afraid to ask.

"Hiring me and your mom as wedding planners," Thea answered, impishly.

 _Definitely not mentioning City Hall_ , Felicity thought. "The dress you two picked out looks amazing," she said. "Thank you so much."

Donna waved her free hand. "Oh, honey, I couldn't even pronounce the label on that thing. _BCBG_ … _MAX_ -something — no clue. I wouldn't have known what I was _doing_ without Thea sending me all those options."

"Well, we couldn't let you wear red to everything," said Thea, with a wink. "You need to save those red dresses up for special occasions. Say…a rehearsal dinner? First wedding anniversary? _Tenth_ wedding anniversary?"

"Goodbye, Thea," said Felicity, pushing off the doorjamb to the sounds of Supreme Evil cackling away at their plans.

She briefly wondered if Oliver had the long end of the stick (so to speak) in that he didn't have to be tag-teamed by both his mother-in-law and younger sister, terrifyingly armed with a curling iron and a beaded clutch respectively.

Felicity walked into her bedroom to find that Caitlin had relocated, and Lyla was alone in front of the full-length mirror, fastening her earrings.

"Hey — is everything okay?"

Lyla looked surprised. "Of course — why wouldn't it be?"

"Gut feeling?" Felicity sat down on the edge of her bed, feeling like she was back in her mom's bedroom, perched on the bed while Donna got ready for work. "You look…distracted."

Lyla brushed it off. "Tired. I'm not exactly in my youth anymore, Felicity," she said, with a trace of wry humor. "I'm the only one here who's been married twice."

"To the same guy," Felicity pointed out. "And don't tell her this, but you could outgun Laurel on your worst day — youth or not. So what's really bothering you?"

Lyla shook her head. "Just work. ARGUS was never going to be a cakewalk, but —" She straightened her shoulders and smiled at Felicity. "It's your birthday…and I _desperately_ need a bit of fun, so let's not discuss my job."

"We can have fun later — fun's a given when a party has an open bar," said Felicity. "Can I help with anything? Dig told me about the Alpha drive, and if ORACLE's taught me anything it's that Amanda has a very — enduring — sense of humor."

Lyla chuckled. "That she did. So no progress on ORACLE, then?"

"Unless you know what an unhackable password looks like…then nope." Felicity snapped her fingers. "Not even a little."

"I can relate," said Lyla. "But maybe Amanda was onto something — insuring her data against a hacker."

"Yeah but why let the computer end up with me?" Felicity asked, something that had been bothering her for a while.

Lyla turned, her arms folded in front of her — classic sign that she was thinking. "You're not the only hacker Amanda's ever come across, Felicity. You're certainly on the more proficient — and ethical — end of the spectrum, so it's highly possible that Amanda wasn't guarding against you."

"I didn't know any unethical hackers were after ORACLE too," said Felicity. "Thought it was our little secret."

Lyla's smile was almost sad. "Nothing ever stays secret for long," she said, and turned towards the window. "I'm starting to think…that maybe we give the truth a lot less credit than it deserves."

Felicity reached out and took Lyla's hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze because she understood the implications behind that sentence. For a spy trained to deal in the gray — in the hazy line between truth and lie — to talk about giving the truth its day…

Things had to be worse than she was letting on.

"Considering a career change?" she said, lightly. "I think I know a vigilante team that's hiring."

Lyla sighed. "Not yet. But thank you, Felicity…for listening."

Felicity translated the subtext of that sentence into a request for something more cheerful, and clapped her hands together — firmly. "Okay, no more work talk. My mom is going to do your hair, and we — Team Arrow and extended family, _we_ — are all going to get drunk on fancy champagne. Sound good?"

The sound of Lyla's laugh — however surprised — was a complete relief. "Sounds great," she said, emphatically.

* * *

Oliver paused at the threshold of the hotel ballroom, legitimately wondering if Thea had made a mistake with the invitations. The ballroom, while decorated to the full traditional standards of a Queen family party, was largely empty except for the hotel staff and —

"Diggle, what's going on?" said Oliver, approaching his friend at the foot of the steps.

Diggle checked his watch, perfectly unruffled. "I think," he said, "this is what it feels like to be early. Party doesn't start for another half-hour, Oliver."

"What?" Oliver checked the text his sister had sent him. "But my invitation said —"

"Ollie! There you are!" said Thea, her shoes clacking as she made her way towards him, a suited-up Roy in tow.

"Thea," said Oliver, looking around the ballroom in a mild panic. "Is no one —?"

She grabbed his arm, stopping him mid-sentence. "Don't freak, I just changed the time on your invitation so it read an hour early, and you…" She checked the time on his phone and flinched "…are still thirty minutes late."

"You changed the time on his invite?" said Diggle, appreciatively. "Damn — I should have done that for _my_ wedding. Then my best man might have actually made it to the wedding photos." A pointed glance at Oliver, mostly amused — mostly.

Thea batted her eyes at Diggle. "Had to get creative. On that note —" She spun around, sprite-like in a pale pink dress "— how'd I do?"

It occurred to Oliver that he should have been mildly annoyed that his friends and family didn't trust him to show up on time to an event — which he hadn't, not technically — but all the annoyance faded away when he stopped to take in his sister's work, all the work she'd put in to honor Felicity on her birthday.

His sister had completely altered the stately decor of the hotel. Some vestiges of it were still visible behind the sheer floor-to-ceiling hangings of pale green and cream, glowing from within from festoons of fairy lights, as gold as fireflies. She'd done something with branches as well, pale white trees curling against the walls like vines on a stone tower, similarly hung with lights and encrusted with what looked like white apple blossoms.

It was as whimsical as a fairytale, the beautiful mist of dreams and innocence brought to life in a ballroom overlooking the starry lights of the city below…and Oliver knew without a doubt that Felicity would love it.

"Everything looks beautiful, Speedy," he said, and kissed his sister's forehead. "So do you. Thank you for doing this — for Felicity."

Thea nudged him with her forehead. "I'd do it again," she promised. "She's like a sister to me."

"Uh, guys?" said Roy, pointing in the direction of the staircase. "I think — and don't go by me — that actual guests are starting to arrive. So should we bolt, or…?"

Thea laughed and grabbed her brother's arm with one hand, Roy's in the other. "Come on, guys. Door duty. You all still remember how to behave at a party?"

Oliver adjusted the buttons on his tuxedo jacket, unconsciously assuming the role of party co-host, honed by years of family parties at the Queen mansion. "Absolutely," he said.

* * *

"So I'm _not_ late?" said Barry, yanking on his bow tie worriedly as he scanned the ballroom for any sign of Iris.

Oliver pulled on Barry's arm to stop him from fidgeting with his suit. Since he'd greeted a majority of the guests (according to Thea's estimate, anyway), Oliver had been relieved from door duty and was at the foot of the steps with his friend. "Barry, I know that me being at a party before you usually means that you're late," he said, flatly. "But not this time."

"Oh." Barry relaxed, and grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. "Okay then. So what happened? You camped out here overnight, or what?"

Oliver shot him a sidelong glance. "My sister…changed my invitation to get me here an hour early."

"Genius," said Barry, visibly impressed. "People should start doing that with me and train tickets. And morning meetings. And dates. A lot of things, actually." He made a face at his empty champagne glass. "You know, I keep hoping that one day I'll surprise my metabolism into _not_ working at super-speed, but it just never happens."

"Unbelievable."

Barry almost spilled his second glass of champagne at the deafening squeal Oliver had already gotten used to.

"Oliver!" said Donna, making her way down the steps with a surprisingly agile gait. She caught him by the arm and planted an affectionate kiss on his cheek. "Don't you look handsome?"

"Thank you, Donna. You look very nice," he said, shooting Barry an odd look over Donna's head.

Barry's mouth was half-open, because unlike Oliver, he wasn't exactly used to Felicity's mother. Oliver had a vague inkling that it might have been the dress — bright yellow, even though it was more to the conservative side than anything he'd seen Donna wear.

"Uh — you're — Felicity's —" Barry stuttered.

"Oh, he's such a puppy," Donna cooed, patting his cheek. "Aren't you the one who got hit by that bus? Bart, was it?"

Barry shook himself. "B—uh—Barry. Allen. Nice to meet you, Ms. Smoak," he said, shaking Donna's hand like he was just getting out of a trance. "I almost dated your daughter. I mean — I didn't lose interest, or anything — I got hit by lightning…before I could really — _do…_ anything." Barry tugged at his collar, looking intensely uncomfortable. "I don't even know why I said that, I'm sorry. I mean, Iris is my — and Oliver's her — yeah…" Barry trailed off and covered his face. " _Help_."

"What Barry means to say," Oliver added, with a firm pat on Barry's back, "is that he and Felicity are very close friends, and that he's very glad to meet you."

Donna held a hand to her chest in sympathy. "Don't worry, dear — I've seen people at Caesar's who were struck by lightning. They can barely get a word out, _terrible_ stutter, terrible. Are you seeing someone for that? Because I can recommend somebody."

Oliver smiled. "I'm sure Barry's just fine, aren't you, Barry?" he said, patting Barry's back again, with a not-so-subtle increase in force.

Barry nodded fervently. "Y-yeah."

"Oh, well — alrighty then," said Donna, smiling too. "I hope the girls are fine — there wasn't room for all of us in one car, and I wanted to get here a little early to help Thea set up. Oh — I hope Felicity got into her dress all right…and I wanted to see her in it too…"

"You — you got Felicity a dress?" Barry asked, clearly having the same thought as Oliver.

Donna was Donna when it came to her clothes, but Felicity…Oliver was finding it difficult to imagine Felicity dressed like her mother. It was a thought that worried him for only a moment more, because Donna was suddenly looking towards the staircase, her hands over her mouth.

"Oh, my beautiful girl," she breathed, her eyes shining.

Oliver turned, slowly, as if in a dream. And it did — feel like a dream.

Because at the top of the steps, in a dress that was the subtle gold of candlelight, stood Felicity Smoak. The way she held herself — the way her clear blue eyes moved slowly across the room like she wasn't sure what to look at — told Oliver that she was unbelievably, unspeakably, nervous, even though he couldn't think of any reason for her to be.

Her hair was swept up and off her neck, although a few loose curls wisped past her cheeks — as flushed and lovely as a rose in bloom — drawing attention to the simple necklace of green and white diamonds around her slender throat. A necklace fit for a queen, worn now by a woman who was…extraordinary beyond words.

Under the soft firefly lights of a ballroom from a fairytale, she was a vision of gold and marble and honey, a sight unexpected only because Oliver didn't know — he couldn't have guessed — that after all this time, he could take one look at her and fall in love, all over again.

"Doesn't she just…?" Donna whispered.

Oliver felt a slow smile dawn across his face as he looked at the woman he loved. "Yes," he said. "She does."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, this birthday party is so freaking fun to write, and I've barely even started yet.
> 
> Thoughts on 3x19:
> 
> \- Ray really needs to talk less. Like, a lot less.
> 
> \- The writing was kinda inconsistent as far as Raylicity was concerned - I thought they were on the awkward fritz because of the unrequited I-Love-You-I'll-Get-You-Some-Jell-O, and suddenly in front of Oliver and Dig they're all good. And touchy. WHAT.
> 
> \- Sassy Oliver has returned, and I know it won't happen but he really needs to be in mission control more. "You and Palmer might be related" - I just died. My new sexuality is him wearing the remote control Google-Glass thingies and throwing punches.
> 
> \- Felicity chased after Oliver, yayyyyy. 1,000,000% sure that if Oliver had ended up following Felicity to the power station they would have ended up making out against a wall, but the writers had to drop THAT golden opportunity and let Felicity get attacked by a metahuman instead. Grr.
> 
> \- Fuckboy Palmer finally saw the writing on the wall and realized that he's the third wheel in THE most epic love story ever. YES. BREAK UP NOW.
> 
> \- ROYYYYYY. I'M SO HAPPY YOU'RE ALIVE BUT WHERE ARE YOU GOING?! WHEN ARE YOU COMING BACK?! (Side note - Did Colton Haynes' acting surprise anyone in this ep? I've seen him in Teen Wolf and Arrow S1-current and he's never been that good)
> 
> \- Ra's you are the biggest asshole in the history of jilted assholes. Did you really have to do that? Really? But Thea was so cool fighting back though.


	31. Today, Tomorrow, Day After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHHH 3x20 IS ALMOST HERE I CAN'T HANDLE THIS  
> Thanks to my idiocy in scheduling, I'm going to be stuck in a 12 hour journey to London instead of watching 3x20. I pity the poor soul sitting beside me, because I swear to God I'm going to be muttering "I'm missing the sex" under my breath for about 9 of those hours.
> 
> But I digress. Enjoy the chapter.

Felicity had been so distracted by the ballroom decor (fairytale forest, Thea was a genius) that she'd missed two things.

One — a staircase entrance meant that people would be staring.

Two — her friends had gone ahead of her, and she was alone at the top of the steps. _Alone,_ alone.

_Oh God._

She felt ridiculous, like a kid playing at dress-up. A gold dress was anything but subtle — what had she been thinking? — a party, with all these people…was it too late to leave? No, she couldn't be rude to Thea. But what if she tripped? That _had_ to be ruder than slowly backing away until she could disappear out the doors.

Felicity was close to hyperventilating as she scanned the ballroom for familiar faces, and saw…no one. Maybe she'd walked into the wrong venue by accident. It certainly seemed like something she would do. How long had she been standing there? She had to move, do the whole gather-skirt-in-one-hand-and-descend-gracefully thing, except her feet were rooted to the ground, paralyzed by something worse than stage fright.

Holy frack — twenty-six and she'd just discovered that it _was_ possible to die of embarrassment.

Suddenly, the crowd at the foot of the staircase seemed to shift, and Felicity heard a sound that started her out of her inertia. It was her name, in a voice she knew — so, so well.

"Oliver," she breathed, and suddenly her feet weren't frozen anymore.

Oliver was climbing the steps towards her, just as surely as she was making her way down to him…until they met in the middle.

After everything she'd been through, Felicity didn't believe in princes. She didn't believe in the whole princess-waiting-in-a-tower thing, or the prince who'd come to carry her away. She liked Disney cartoons as much as anyone (ever), but she had no delusions about their resemblance to reality.

But Oliver — right then — was the closest she'd ever seen to a real life prince. Except she wasn't a princess — she was the furthest thing from it.

"There is a slit up my dress and I can feel a breeze on my back," she whispered, barely moving her lips. "Who _am_ I?"

Oliver took her hands in his, and kissed them — as if it was just the two of them, alone, as if nothing ever mattered but the fact that they were together. "Beautiful," he murmured. "Happy birthday, Felicity."

Felicity smiled, slowly, shyly, and let him lead her down the steps, to a ripple of applause from the onlooking crowd. But the truth was — she barely heard it, because she had Oliver's hand in hers and knew, without a doubt, that she would have let him lead her anywhere.

* * *

Felicity could get used to this — fancy birthday parties with Oliver Queen on her arm (in a tux she couldn't wait to take off him), waiters armed with trays of champagne flutes, and an open bar within easy reach. She laughed when Oliver pulled her to him with an arm around her waist and kissed her forehead, because he knew that it tickled.

"Sorry, Walter," Oliver said, smoothly. "You were saying?"

"I never got to properly congratulate you both on your engagement," said Walter, mildly reproachful over his glass of champagne. "If you don't mind my asking, why did you keep it quiet?"

Felicity and Oliver looked at each other simultaneously. "Uh…" said Felicity, with her hand in the crook of Oliver's elbow, "Oliver has a list of some _scary_ ex-girlfriends, and between that and work…we just never got around to it, I guess. I'm sorry, Walter — I know Oliver's like a son to you, and we _really_ should have told you sooner."

Walter shook his head with a warm smile (as warm as British smiles got, which was mildly toasty). "No apologies necessary," he said. "Moira used to laugh about this — ah — _list_ of yours. She used to say it was a wonder how none of them had attempted to inflict harm on her son at all."

"That…sounds about right." Felicity looked up at Oliver's face and laughed at his expression — a cross between annoyance and embarrassment at parental truth-reveals. Maybe he was thinking about the girlfriends who _had_ tried to kill him.

"But in all seriousness, Oliver, I think we can agree that your mother would have been ecstatic at the prospect of Felicity becoming part of the family. She always wanted you to be decent, and you weren't…always so." Walter inclined his head at the courteous omission of Oliver's less illustrious days. "She would have been very proud at the man you are today. Felicity — you are a talented young woman, and Oliver — a loyal heart. I wish you both nothing but health and happiness."

Walter solemnly raised his glass to them, a gesture they mirrored — both in remembrance of Oliver's absent (and missed) mother, and in the hope of happier days ahead.

"Thank you Walter," said Oliver, shaking his ex-stepfather's hand. "Enjoy the party."

Still arm in arm, Felicity rested her chin on Oliver's shoulder as they watched Walter melt into the crowd — unsurprisingly, he seemed to know more people at her own birthday party than she did. "I like him," she murmured.

"Mm," was Oliver's surprisingly lukewarm answer.

"Mm?" she said. "Why _mm_? I thought you liked Walter."

"I do," he said, depositing their glasses with a waiter and leading her…somewhere. All Felicity saw was Oliver's shoulders until suddenly, his hand had slipped to her dress-exposed upper back and she was being turned towards him.

Felicity looked around — just realizing that they were on the dance floor. "Whoa," she said, looking up at Oliver in surprise. "Are you _voluntarily_ dancing with me?"

Oliver cocked his head, as if he couldn't imagine why she was so shocked. "It's not the first time," he said. "Besides — I figure that people are less likely to approach us if we're dancing."

"Well." Felicity made a face. "You're dancing — I'm just swaying."

Oliver laughed and twirled her, once again with surprising ease. Her skirt swirled out from her waist in a graceful rush of wings, and Felicity was a little breathless (and dizzy) when she spun back into his arms. "Now that's just unfair," she said. "I'm wearing a dress with very little back and a slit I'm starting to regret — thank God I shaved my legs and put on deodorant is all I'm saying — I also talk a lot when I dance…is it obvious?"

Kudos to Oliver for keeping a straight face at the word _deodorant_. "Yes, Felicity," he answered. "But it's…one of the things I love about you. You always say exactly what you're thinking."

"As if you couldn't tell from my face." But Felicity was smiling too. "So what is it — about Walter? Why _mm_?"

"Walter is one of the _many_ people who have been telling me how lucky I am that you agreed to marry me," said Oliver, looking her right in the eye.

_Oh._

Felicity found it (quietly) adorable how Oliver's pride had been hurt by everyone he knew basically implying that he'd been intolerable, pre-proposal. But as much as her ego told her otherwise, she knew it was time for some damage control.

"I know they make you sound like a complete disaster pre-me, but that's not true. Well, mostly not true, because they don't know about your… _other_ activities. If they knew even half of what you've done for Starling, our positions would be completely reversed."

Oliver made a non-committal noise. "It's not that. I _know_ I wasn't decent, long before I ever met you. That's why — every time they remind me…I think about where I'd be — if we'd never met. _Who_ I'd be, without you." Oliver's expression was distant as he shook his head. "I don't like thinking about that."

"Oliver Queen," she said, low and serious. They'd stopped moving, and she didn't care that they were in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by couples who were still dancing. Because he needed to hear this.

"As flattered as I am that you think I had — _anything_ more than 20% — to do with you being the way you are today, even if we'd never met, you'd still be the same person, you'd still be… _you_. Sure, maybe without little old me you'd be a little broodier, a tad more homicidal, and _definitely_ more of a stupid risk-taker, but that's not who you _are_. In your heart — in your soul. These things don't change, Oliver. Maybe your light gets a little brighter, but it's always been there. You — in your heart — have always a good man. A man with the potential to be a hero…and Oliver, with or without me — you are, and will always be — a hero. Your heart is…one of the many things I love about you." Felicity pulled back a little, looking into his eyes. "Do you understand?"

Oliver nodded, a smile flickering across his face. "I do," he murmured. "But Felicity, I don't ever want to be without you."

Felicity laughed. "Good — something we don't have to fight about."

His eyes softened at her words, drifting down to her lips, and Felicity felt her eyelashes sweep her cheeks when Oliver kissed her, as if it was to seal a promise they had made to each other.

"Always," he said, against her lips.

"Always," she agreed, and kissed him again.

* * *

"May I cut in?"

Oliver looked around with raised eyebrows — to find Ray Palmer standing behind them.

"No date for my senior prom and suddenly I have two guys asking me to dance," Felicity joked. "Hi, Ray — you know Oliver."

"Hi, Felicity," said Ray. "Oliver — nice to see you again."

"Likewise, Ray," he answered.

Ray smiled at him now, an expression so single-mindedly good-natured that Oliver couldn't feel too annoyed at the unexpected interruption, even though he was acutely aware of Ray's feelings towards Felicity.

Nevertheless, Oliver turned to Felicity with a wordless question — because it was her choice, and whatever his feelings were regarding Ray Palmer, Felicity's was the only opinion that mattered.

"It's okay, Oliver." Felicity reached up to press her lips to his. "Come find me later?" she said, in a rush.

Oliver nodded, and they parted with a kiss. Then he withdrew to the edge of the dance floor and watched as Ray took Felicity's hand to steer her into a slow dance.

* * *

"I see you're wearing the birthday present I got you," Ray commented, as they moved smoothly across the ballroom floor (who knew the billionaire inventor could dance?). "Diamonds and a Smartwatch — that's, uh, quite the fashion statement you're making."

Felicity put on her best Thea-like smile. "Well, who knows — the nanites could come in handy if I go into cardiac arrest from the _deadly_ appetizers they're serving tonight. Do those work on a nut allergy, by the way?"

"Oh, absolutely. They're basically controlled by the signal emitted by the Smartwatch, which as you know, functions as a computer by itself, so theoretically, if you wanted them to do somersaults in your bloodstream, that would be —"

"—a waste of time, but possible."

Ray squinted at her. "I should have you around more often. You know, to finish my sentences for me."

Felicity laughed. "Sorry, I do that sometimes."

"No," Ray said, quickly. "I don't mind."

They were quiet for a while, and Felicity found herself — despite her social anxiety and general lack of coordination — enjoying herself. It was the company, not the dancing (she actually wasn't sure _what_ dance it was, just that Ray knew what he was doing). Ray was a good friend, easy to talk to (if you weren't annoyed easily by babbling and _non sequiturs_ , but who was she kidding — it would be like the pot calling the kettle black), and pretty selfless, if his nocturnal activities were anything to go by.

"Do you remember when I asked you about the Arrow?" he said, suddenly.

Felicity willed herself not to tense, or let her eyes flicker towards Oliver. "Which time?" she asked, lightly.

But Ray didn't take her cue. "Why didn't it work out?" he asked. "Between you two. You came back to Starling for him, you're still helping him — so why aren't you together?"

Felicity didn't say anything for a bit, even though she could sense Ray looking at her. She knew how good she was at lying, which was to say — not. So the art was in telling the truth, in parts. Felicity knew which truth she wanted to tell.

"I can't speak for him," she said, at last. "But I guess…I wanted someone — something — _more_. The Arrow just…wasn't enough. I couldn't be with someone who was just a mask. It would have been good, for a while. But in the end, it's just…"

"…an imitation. A replacement for something real," Ray finished, watching her the whole while. Felicity nodded slowly, wondering if she'd imagined the change in atmosphere — the undercurrent of tension that made her avert her eyes.

"You're right," she said, watching the far wall. "I don't want that." Felicity smiled at the truth in her words, careless of whether Ray could see it. "Oliver's… _more_ ," she said, softly.

Ray cleared his throat. "Sorry — put my foot in it again. Anyway, message received: no mask talk tonight. So — how am I doing?" he asked, glancing at their feet. "I haven't stepped on you yet, that's gotta count for something."

"You're doing surprisingly okay," said Felicity, relaxing at the change in conversation. "Then again, I've only danced with about — three guys — in my whole life, and one of them has the hand-eye coordination of a coma patient."

Ray's whole torso shook when he laughed. "I'm guessing that's not Oliver," he said.

"No." Felicity found herself scanning the ballroom, looking for him in the faces they spun past. "No, it isn't Oliver," she said, quietly.

"Well, Felicity Smoak," said Ray, looking down at her with a small smile. "I'm honored to be one of them."

* * *

"You don't have to worry, you know," Donna said suddenly, and Oliver looked at her in surprise.

"About what?" he asked, careful not to steer them into the other dancing couples. Donna — not unlike her daughter — had an unfortunate tendency not to mind her surroundings.

Donna didn't answer, but pointed with her chin instead. Oliver followed the direction she indicated, his gaze traveling across the dance floor, until — almost as if it had been drawn there — it alighted on the unlikely contrast of Ray and Felicity dancing together.

Oliver laughed under his breath, dismissing it with a shake of his head. "Donna, it's —"

"Please." Donna's hand was firmly on his shoulder. "I may not know computer thingies or business corpo-whatever, but I do know _people_ , and I know what it looks like when two — great — men are in love with a great woman." She paused, and her eyes — Felicity's eyes — were full of understanding. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

Oliver inclined his head. "Ray's not as good a liar as he is a businessman."

"Oh, Felicity's terrible at lying," said Donna, with a sigh. "It all shows on her face."

"They're very alike," Oliver agreed.

"Oliver…" Donna's knowing gaze was exceedingly hard to escape. "Felicity loves you. You know that, right?"

"I do." Oliver nodded. "And I'm very lucky. But sometimes," he said, slowly. "Sometimes I wonder…what might have happened if Felicity had met Palmer — _Ray_ — first. They're so alike — intelligent, they speak the same language and practically finish each other's sentences…"

"Oliver, you don't actually think that everything you and Felicity have is completely up to timing, do you?" said Donna, with a light laugh. "Because if _that_ were true, I would have been having this almost-mother-in-law conversation with you about two — three years earlier. There's a _reason_ why Felicity isn't with anyone else but you — why she was _never_ with anyone else since she met you. Now why do you think that is?"

Oliver lifted his shoulders. "I don't —"

"—you do," Donna said, steadily. "Of course you do, Oliver."

Oliver exhaled, slowly. "Because what Felicity and I have…was never — and is never — going to be simple," he said, thinking back to all the times he'd wanted to let Felicity go — the times when he'd _known_ that letting her go was the most rational thing to do.

Each time, something had drawn them back together. Fate, and in the absence of that, their singular and shared stubbornness that had stopped them from staying apart.

"But the things that matter rarely are," Oliver finished, quietly.

"The heart wants what it wants. And that's why I know — why you _should_ know — that my daughter wants you, and has only ever wanted you. _Now_ ," said Donna, suddenly business-like. "Oliver, I _adore_ you, but as Felicity's mom, you know that I have to say some things you're not gonna like. The song's about to end and I want you to get back to my baby girl, so I'll make it short. The point is — if you hurt my daughter, I will make _sure_ that you regret it. I know I don't look like much, but the truth is, I worked sixty-hour weeks in six-inch heels to raise that genius girl, and I'm not gonna let some man make my daughter sad without having something to say about it."

Listening to Donna warn him off hurting her only daughter, Oliver was reminded — yet again — where Felicity's grit and fire had come from, and he had nothing but admiration for both women.

"I would never hurt Felicity," he promised. "I couldn't bear to."

Donna smiled brightly at him as the song drew to a close, and everyone applauded. "Good. Now do her mom a favor — and marry her already," she said, beaming. " _Marry her_."

* * *

"It's… _weird_ , and oddly disturbing — but I can't look away," said Felicity, her voice muffled by Oliver's sleeve. "You'd think I'd be used to it by now, what with all the emoji-ridden texts he's obviously sending her."

Oliver — not unlike Felicity — was watching Quentin and Donna dance, from their little alcove in the corner of the room. There was something oddly endearing about them — the contrast between serious and light-hearted, police captain and someone who could only be described as a force of nature. Oliver was smiling, glad that Quentin had found his happiness, and so had Donna.

"Is your mom happy?" he asked, turning his head to murmur in Felicity's ear.

Felicity sighed. "Stupidly happy."

Oliver kissed her cheek. "Then let them be."

Felicity made a reluctant noise under her breath and slipped her arms around his middle, seemingly unperturbed by the stiff dress shirt beneath her cheek. The air was chillier from standing close to the windows, and Oliver chafed at Felicity's exposed arms to smooth away the goosebumps.

There were small flower petals in her hair from the trees above their heads, but Felicity didn't appear to notice. She seemed to like where they were standing — a niche created by the trees and billowing green drapery, an easy place to be inconspicuous.

"Imagine what happens if they get married before we do," she said, and laughed. " _God_ — being lapped by my own mother. I'll be a bridesmaid if you'll be one of the groomsmen."

For a long moment, Oliver didn't say anything, because he was thinking. About what Donna had said to him, about him and Felicity being more than just timing. If anything, what she said had reminded him that time was rarely on their side. He'd asked Felicity to marry him almost six months ago, and six months later, nothing had changed. There'd always been something getting in the way — either in their lives outside the Foundry or their work to save the city.

All the wars they'd fought and the obstacles that had come between them…how long was he going to tell himself that there'd be more time, and more chances?

"Oliver?" Felicity peeked at him, visibly worried. "You know I'm kidding, right? There's literally a .5% chance that Quentin's going to ask you to be one of his groomsmen. You're not exactly his favorite person…ever."

"Earlier today — you said that we should get married at City Hall." Oliver looked back at her, his expression serious. "Did you mean it?"

Felicity deflected the question. "That was when I thought — and still think, by the way — that your sister was going to throw us this _huge_ wedding with all these people we don't know. Which is great — except we're not royalty, and I want our wedding to be just us and the people who matter. I guess I brought up City Hall because it sounds…" She shrugged. " _Simple_. Conventional…ish."

"Then let's do it," Oliver said, meaning it. "Next week. Tomorrow. I don't care — let's get married."

Felicity pulled back, searching his face in disbelief. "Oliver, are you choosing _now_ to grow a sense of humor?"

"With the lives we lead, there's always going to be something getting in the way — whether it's Sandra, or Malcolm, or the League of Assassins. The reason why we're not married right now, why it took us this long to get to where we are — it's because I always chose the Arrow before I chose you, because I always told myself that the time wasn't right." Oliver took Felicity's face in his hands, remembering the first time he'd kissed her, how painful it was to let her go, and the bitterness of the time they'd spent apart.

"I don't want to let time decide things for us, not anymore. I'm tired of losing time because it's not on our side. I _choose_ a life with you, right here, right now. I want to marry you, Felicity — whether the timing's right or not — because we've always made it work…whatever happens to us, and we have _always_ fought our way through."

Oliver nodded, knowing that he'd said all that he needed to say.

"So will you?" he asked. "Will you marry me?"

Felicity reached up to hold his wrists, her thumbs tracing the exact line of his pulse, his heartbeat — all while her eyes searched his, taking in the soul he'd bared for her. It seemed like a lifetime — even though it was barely the space between heartbeats — before she bridged the small distance between them and pressed her lips to his.

Oliver felt the sweep of flower petals as they fell past their cheeks unseen, the warm softness of Felicity's body as she leaned into him with complete trust, and the sweetness of a kiss that wasn't just full of promise — but one of choice and decision…and love.

"Today, tomorrow, or the day after?" Felicity asked, at last. Her hands were clasped at the back of his neck, her forehead pressed to his…and breathlessly, they both began to laugh.

* * *

"So am I forgiven — for springing the surprise party on you?" said Thea, squeezing Felicity around the waist.

Felicity didn't even bother pretending that she was angry. "Completely. It's like you drilled your way into my brain, pulled out my fourteen-year-old dreams and made them look _so_ much better than I imagined."

Barry made a face. "That's an image I really needed," he muttered, and popped a _hors-d'oeuvre_ into his mouth. "What _is_ this, by the way? It's really good, but I have a feeling that I should know what I'm eating — for health reasons."

Thea stood on her toes to peer at his decked plate. "You mean out of the _fifty_ appetizers on your plate? Uh, that's brioche with crème fraîche and caviar, the green ones are lobster-endive salad rolls…"

"She even knows food," Cisco breathed, his eyes (and she wasn't making this up) shining with puppy-like adoration for Thea.

Thea blinked at him, while Felicity bit back a laugh. "What?"

"Uh — I was just —" Cisco looked helplessly at Caitlin and Ronnie for help, but they just smiled at him, "— I like food, and you like food, so…"

"There he is," said Lyla. "Perfect timing, Johnny."

"Who wants a drink?" said Diggle, appearing with glasses in his hands.

"Merlot — right?" said Roy, giving Thea the glass in his hand.

Thea looped her arm through his and kissed him on the cheek. "Absolutely."

Felicity saw Ronnie give Cisco a sympathetic pat on the back, and winked at him.

"Hey." Oliver's voice was at her ear, and Felicity turned to find that he'd brought her a drink too. The look that flickered between them was full of the secret they shared and the choice they'd made — to marry each other, unforeseen timing issues and precision-crafted wedding plans be damned.

"Thank you," she said, and leaned back against him with a smile. Oliver's cheek was pressed to hers, his arms around her waist as they all stood in a circle — Team Arrow (yes, she was calling it that now) and Team Flash — together. They all raised their glasses and for a moment, there was nothing that needed to be said, as they all felt the ties that linked them to each other — Oliver to Diggle, to Felicity, from Barry to Cisco and Caitlin…and everyone else in between. The strange and unforeseeable chain of events that had led to some very different, good-hearted, and _brilliant_ people allying to save their cities.

"Anyone else getting the urge to sing _Kumbaya_?" said Cisco.

Felicity laughed and raised her glass. "I propose a toast — to us."

"For our cities," Barry added.

"To the people we love," said Diggle.

"And the things that matter," Oliver said, softly, but only Felicity felt his arm tighten around her — holding her closer still.

On that note, they tapped glasses — laughter and smiles all around, a secret shared without words.

* * *

"Now, I think this is where we all start to behave normally," said Felicity, after the toast. "If we all keep clustering as a group, I think they'll start to suspect what we're up to…you know — _other_ work-wise."

Diggle chuckled. "I think me and Lyla owe each other a dance. We'll see you guys out there?"

"A dance might be nice," said Caitlin, smiling at Ronnie. "That seems pretty normal."

"Speak for yourself," said Cisco. "If I start dancing, people are going to think I've been body-snatched." He turned to Barry. "Buffet table?"

Felicity watched the two of them make a beeline towards the food with more than a little envy. Between all the dancing and greeting and toasting, she hadn't even had time to _look_ at an appetizer. Besides the ones on Barry's plate, but he was oddly territorial about his food.

"Up for a dance, big brother?" said Thea. "It's been a while since you let me stand on your feet."

"Speedy, you were _six_ when I let you do that. Your weight's —"

"— _that_ is the cutest thing I've ever heard," Felicity said loudly, digging her elbow into Oliver's back. "You should do that right now."

"Uh, I'm pretty sure all the guests already think the Queens are weirdos," said Roy. "Let's maybe _not_ add to that impression."

"My hero." Thea planted a kiss on Roy's cheek and grabbed Oliver's arm. "But Felicity's blessing is the only one I need. Come on, Ollie. Let's show everyone how we've forgotten those stupid dance lessons mom made us take."

"Then I'm getting another drink," Roy said, and turned to Felicity. "Another round?"

"Yes _please_."

"I'll be right back," Oliver murmured, kissing her quickly on the cheek before his sister towed him away.

Felicity waved them off with a laugh and stepped towards the vast floor-to-ceiling windows, trying her best to pretend like she wasn't there. Solo-socializing wasn't exactly her forte, given the fact that there was no one to stop her from blurting out something stupid.

She felt the soft brush of flowers against her shoulder — a reminder of the _third_ proposal Oliver Queen had made to her in the last six months (that guy really needed to start taking _yes_ for an answer) — when she stepped under the decorative trees and stood at the window, looking down at the city below. The view was undeniably spectacular, the kind of catch-your-breath height that made her glad the glass wasn't going to disappear like the zoo windows in the first _Harry Potter_ movie.

Felicity watched the sparkle of Starling City from above, swaying idly to the waltz that was still playing in the background — the tinkle of glasses and the ripple of soft laughter and talk — who knew sounds of a party could be so peaceful when she was hiding in her corner?

"Hello, Felicity," said an unfamiliar voice. Very clipped and precise — as English as Walter — which meant that he was probably one of the Queen family's illustrious friends.

In other words: frack.

Felicity turned, her hands firmly behind her back to hide the fidgeting. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't know your…name."

The man standing in front of her was tall and wiry, his broad shoulders held very straight, as precise as his clipped voice. At first, Felicity was so sure that it was nothing more than her imagination, a flicker of wishful thinking — a barely-remembered dream. Because the man she thought she was seeing belonged to a whole other world, one she'd left behind a long, long time ago.

But it was the hair…and the eyes. Dark hair, a brown that was very nearly black — silvered here and there in the dim light, probably because it had been a while since the photo had been taken. A photo she knew as well as the lines in her palm, the scars in her heart.

The eyes, though, the eyes were the worst part. The photo had been faded, her parents standing at a distance — it'd been impossible to tell what color his eyes really were, whether they'd been cat-green or murky brown or a soulless black.

So the eyes…they were a shock she hadn't braced herself for.

Even under the warm gold glow of a childhood dream, they were the blue of frost and snow…as cold as the heart of a man who'd walked out on his wife and child.

"Do you know me?" he asked, solemnly.

Even now, Felicity didn't want to believe it. Not here, not how. In her mind, there was a version of her who'd turned the word into a blade, an arrow she could thrust into his heart, an accusation fierce with anger and unforgiving in rage. But the word that came to her wasn't razor-edged with steel. In her moment of shock, it was soft, simple, and to her ears — utterly heartbreaking.

"Dad?" she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, you called it. Damien Darhk. Go read some Arrow season 4 spoilers, because I'm probably very wrong. But eh *shrug*.
> 
> Oh, and Felicity's dad is British. I figured that since he's been with the ARGUS London branch...
> 
> Plus — I have a thing for British accents :D


	32. Happy Birthday, Felicity

Seconds earlier, Felicity had been safe — secure in the reassuring sounds of a party going off without a hitch, in being near the people she loved, in the knowledge that she wasn't alone.

It was her imagination — it had to be — but everything that had lulled her into a sense of security seemed to shrink to a vanishing point when she looked at him. She stared, even though it was rude, as a cold instinctive shiver traveled along her bare arms, up her shoulders and the back of her neck.

 _Damien._ Her father's name was Damien. Even thinking his name was like something from a whole other life, an alternate world in which the man who'd abandoned Felicity wasn't a complete stranger to her.

For a moment, father and daughter sized each other up, taking stock of the two decades' worth of changes since they'd been apart. Without conscious thought, Felicity searched for herself in her father's features, for a sign that he'd carried her with him, even after he'd left. Despite what Donna had repeatedly told her over the years, about Felicity being so much like her father — she didn't see it. Where Donna was softness and smiles, her father was all angles and sharpness, almost hawk-like in his edges, dark eyebrows drawn together in a permanent frown and the corners of his mouth turned naturally down. A smile from him would have looked malevolent, as unnatural as Barry scowling or Oliver looking at her with hate.

No, Felicity didn't know her father.

Felicity's pulse thudded steadily in her throat, surprisingly calm for what she was feeling — which was a lot of things. Shock — for one, betrayal — for another, and apprehension — because there was no way that her dad would show up after nearly twenty years, just like that.

"Why are you here?" she said, slowly.

Damien's expression never shifted, not even when he angled his head as if to get a better measure of her. "I couldn't miss my daughter's birthday," he said, in a voice that made Felicity want to slam a buzzer and retort: _try again_.

"Why not?" she said, flatly. "You've missed the last nineteen of them. What's with the accent, by the way? Why are you _British_?"

 _Snark_ probably wasn't the best approach to go with, but it was Felicity's default setting (apart from Disabled Verbal Filter).

"You're angry with me," he observed.

"Well now you're just stating the obvious."

Damien folded his arms behind his back, as if he was preparing himself for the act of placating a child. "So ask me your questions and I'll tell you no lies."

Felicity shook her head, flicking a hurried glance around the room to make sure that they hadn't been noticed. "Get out — before mom sees you. Leave. _Now_."

She could tell already that her father wasn't in a habit of smiling, even though his eyes seemed to dance perpetually with a kind of cold humor, even in response to an unceremonious request of eviction. "Your instinct to protect your mother is quite admirable," he remarked, as if it was a discussion of the weather, not the woman he'd had a child with. "You've grown into a lovely young woman."

Felicity reached out and felt her palm spread against the cold glass at her back, as if to steady herself. The words of a compliment, delivered with the cadence of a knife-edge gliding smoothly across skin. Amanda Waller had talked like that. Of all the people her father could have ended up reminding her of, it had to be the psychopathic drone lady who still made appearances in Felicity's nightmares as a leering ghost — when she wasn't falling to her knees as a decapitated corpse. Because why not, since Team Arrow families were the best — just the best.

"You don't know anything about me, and you don't deserve to," she said to her father, and jerked her chin. "Now leave."

Damien remained where he was, unnervingly still. His head was turned, his calculating stare sweeping across the ballroom — where her friends and family carried on, blissfully unaware of the shuddering ground beneath her feet.

Felicity found herself watching her own father — without realizing it — as if she was the deer caught in the headlights, the wounded animal too dazed to get away. Waiting, just waiting to see what the aggressor might do.

In those nineteen years she'd been without a father, Felicity remembered feeling a mixture of emotions — unable to decide on which one because of all the unanswered questions and the vain, impossible hope that there'd been a good reason he'd left her.

But now, at twenty-six, Felicity didn't know him — hated him, and was afraid of him.

"A lovely party," he said. "A gift from someone dear to you, I imagine."

Felicity didn't say anything, resolutely not letting her mind drift to Oliver Queen. _If_ her father turned out to be a danger — she didn't want Oliver getting involved. After everything that had happened with Connor and Sandra and Malcolm…he had enough on his plate, without having another burden to carry.

Her burden. Her choice. A burden she could choose to carry…or cut from her — now and forever.

"No," she said, carefully. "No."

Felicity stared at her father, realizing that despite her fear, her distrust…she had the words. Maybe it was anger, or sadness, or the instinct to shield her mother from this… _monster_ who'd hurt her. Maybe it was the universe giving her a chance. Whatever it was, Felicity knew that for once in her life, she could say the words exactly as she imagined them.

"I don't know why you decided to come here tonight, or what it is you want…from me, or from mom. You said that you'd give me answers, and yes, I've imagined — _dreamed_ — about a thousand different scenarios, a thousand different reasons — reasons that _you_ explain to me — about why you left. Why you _abandoned_ me and mom." Felicity shook her head. "You don't know anything about me and you don't deserve to, but I deal a lot with truth — the absence of it, anyway. I once told someone very important to me that the truth is always better than the lie…and I stand by that. Except I thought the truth I wanted was a reason from you."

Felicity lifted her chin, because her eyes were dry of tears, and she was seeing her father now, so clearly.

"But that's _not_ the truth. Whatever you tell me…it's just another lie, to cover up the only truth I need to know — that you walked out on me, on mom. So, no — dad. I don't have questions, and I don't want your answers. I want you to go, now…and I never want to see your face again."

Felicity pushed off the window with a touch, lighter than anything she would have expected of herself, and started to walk away. Out of the shadows, and into the light.

She stopped just shy of the line — the invisible threshold that she was about to pass — and turned her head.

"Goodbye, dad," she said, looking at her father for the last time.

But before she could take another step, a sound stopped her short. Her father…laughing. It was only a quiet ripple, low in his throat, but it was enough to make her nerves hum with unease.

"I apologize," he said, turning to her. "In all honesty, I do agree. The _truth_ that you speak of…it was only an incentive for you to accompany me. Since you've shunned my offer, it seems I have no choice but to exhaust my options, and for that, Felicity, I do apologize."

"For what?" Felicity snapped, losing her composure at last. "For walking out on me and mom, or having the _nerve_ to show your face here?"

Damien shook his head, and opened his palm to show her a small black sphere — jarringly familiar. "For this," he replied, and Felicity felt the pieces come together…

…a little too late.

" _No!_ "

The device flared white and released a piercing shriek that bored into her ears like a thousand sharpened knives. Felicity's hands went instinctively to cover her ears, and she ducked — just as the windows shattered in a hail of broken glass, from the deafening cry of a fallen Canary.

* * *

"So that's a _no_ on the Chateau wedding?" said Thea, and Oliver rolled his eyes in exasperation. Even when she was supposed to be dancing, his sister was unstoppable.

"Speedy, it's not that I don't appreciate the concern —"

"—and by concern you mean _meddling_ —"

"—but maybe the wedding is something Felicity and I should worry about. Getting married is a choice we made, and it doesn't seem fair that you should be doing the work for it."

Thea shot him a skeptical look. "Really? Playing the _it's-for-my-own-good_ card?"

"I'm your older brother," Oliver answered, determinedly keeping his thoughts from City Hall. "It's the only card I'm allowed to play."

"At least have it in a church," she prodded. "You're not one of those couples who get married in their own _apartment_ , are you? Speaking of — when _are_ you two going to move in together?"

Oliver didn't know which conversation he least wanted to have with his sister, and was thankfully rescued by Roy's reappearance, frowning at an orange smear down the front of his shirt.

"Roy, what happened to your shirt?" said Thea, dragging Oliver off the dance floor to deal with her boyfriend.

Roy looked darkly in the direction of the buffet table. "Barry," he muttered. "Super speed and clumsiness. I was supposed to get Felicity a drink, but now I can't find her."

"Oliver." Lyla was suddenly at his shoulder. "How does Felicity know Damien Darhk?"

"Who?" Oliver stared at her and Diggle, uncomprehending — because of the name, and the unknown reason behind their grim expressions.

Diggle pointed in the direction of the windows, and Oliver spotted Felicity locked in a conversation with a man he'd never seen before. From this distance, it was impossible to get more than a vague impression of the stranger, but there was a dark grace about him, something quietly unsettling — as if there was more, infinitely more that he was concealing.

"ARGUS?" Oliver said, without hesitation.

"ARGUS." Lyla's gaze was fixed on Darhk's distant figure, and Oliver knew that she was just as wary of him as he was.

"Thea — you know the guest list front and back," said Diggle. "Did you invite Darhk?"

Thea shook her head, and looked at them — one to the other. "What's wrong?"

"Felicity can handle herself," said Roy, but Oliver heard the undercurrent of doubt in his voice. Not at Felicity — because Oliver had no doubt that she could — but because they all knew ARGUS methods, a legacy of Amanda Waller's that Lyla had yet to change.

"You still have your Glock?" Oliver asked, without taking his eyes off Felicity.

"And a spare," Diggle answered, and Oliver heard the telltale click as it changed hands from him to Lyla.

"We need to keep this quiet," said Lyla. "Darhk's a trained ARGUS field agent — and he was one of Amanda's protégés. You know what that means."

"What are you going to do?" said Thea. " _Club_ him over the head with a hundred guests as witnesses? That's insane —"

" _John_ ," said Oliver, because Felicity's body language had changed. Whatever she'd been whispering, it was now a snarl — every fiber of her being rippled with the ferocity of someone gearing up for a fight.

Oliver was already moving, cutting swiftly through the crowd, appearances be damned. He wasn't armed — but he didn't need to be, not when _he_ was the weapon. " _Felicity_ —" he said, but before he was even halfway there, he heard her.

" _No!_ "

"Felicity!" Oliver shouted, before the windows exploded inward from the shattering assault of a sonic scream.

* * *

Felicity struggled to her feet, her palms weeping from skittering across broken glass without purchase, every bone in her body rattling — grating — in protest to the penetrating wail of the sonic device.

_Sara — how did she do it?_

Brave. Sara was — had been — fearless. Felicity needed to be fearless now.

Damien was moving — swiftly, methodically — because he had a plan. She saw him roll sonic devices in the direction of the other guests, broadening the reach of the paralyzing sound. There was something blinking red in his free hand — a beacon of some kind. The wind gusted in strong from the yawning mouths of the shattered windows, tugging at his dark cropped hair while he worked.

She clenched her fist around a handful of glass, careless of the edges cutting into her skin, and drew her arm back.

"Dad!" she shouted, and was about to throw when something moved in her peripheral vision — a shadowy figure, taking shape in the broken window.

Felicity turned, just in time for a hand to close around her throat. Her vision flashed crimson when she hit the ground hard, the breath rushing out of her lungs from the impact. The hand was small-fingered, shaped to be an instrument of delicate grace, but _inhumanly_ strong for the crushing force it exerted around her windpipe.

Felicity choked, struggling with her attacker even though she could barely see. All around her she could hear the phantom thud of unseen boots making their landing, and the first panicked screams of guests under attack. Gunshots rang out — short, sharp bursts — the chandelier shorted out with a groan and plunged towards the ground — more screams, an explosive crash.

_Oliver._

The glaring city lights beyond the window threw her attacker's face into shadow, and all Felicity saw was a halo of silvery curls, scattered by the night wind. A woman.

" _Don't move_ ," she growled.

It was female, deeper than most voices, and husky. Felicity forced herself to focus, to remember — despite every instinct in her body diverting her energy towards survival. This was important, because Felicity _knew_ that voice, even though she thought she'd never hear it again.

" _Sara?_ " she croaked, as her eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness and Felicity saw the face of her old friend, masked, but utterly recognizable as she was in life.

Her previous life.

* * *

Bullets smashed into the long table they were using for cover.

Lyla hung up with a curse. "ARGUS has no record of squad activity in the area!" she shouted.

"Why are you saying that like it's a bad thing?" Roy asked, hunched over as the bullets splintered the wood above his head.

"Because now we don't know what we're up against," said Diggle, grimly.

Oliver counted two beats before he darted up and hurled the table knife in his hand at one of the hooded gunmen. The blade sank into his side and he went down with a strangled cry, a sound nearly lost in the high-pitched whine of the sonic devices littering the ground like landmines.

"Yes we do," Oliver answered, shortly. "They're threatening innocent people — they need to be stopped."

Lyla nodded and ducked around the table to fire back. Beside him, his sister grabbed two more table knives from the medley of scattered silverware around them and took down two more. "I think I hit Barry!" she said, her eyes wide with alarm. "I didn't see for sure, but I think I saw a red streak!"

Lyla shook her head, reloading her gun. "Don't worry, Thea. Barry can take care of himself."

Roy hit one of them in the eye with a fondue fork. "Yeah, worry about us — we're the ones who brought silverware to a gun fight!"

Oliver gripped his shoulder. "Not helping."

"I still count fifteen — maybe more!" Diggle shouted, firing around the table.

"We just need to hold them off until Barry evacuates the guests!" Oliver said, gritting his teeth at the sensation of having his hands metaphorically tied. In a way, it was a lucky thing that he didn't have his bow, or the temptation to use it — thereby blowing his cover in front of the guests — would be nearly insurmountable.

Oliver took a quick scan of the chaos when threw another knife to incapacitate an attacker. The lights had been taken out, which allowed them to fight back with a low risk of being seen, but hampered their vision as to what they were fighting against.

Oliver could just make out the three guards still standing around Darhk, obscuring a figure lying on the ground in a gold dress — she might have been struggling or too hurt to move, he didn't know. His sister yanked him back down just before a bullet nicked the table edge instead of his skull.

"He still has Felicity." Oliver gripped the table leg above his head and was about to heave himself to his feet — when Diggle's grip descended on his shoulder and forced him back.

"John — let go!"

Diggle gave him a hard shake. "You can't go out there. There are still ten of them, all armed with assault rifles."

"What are you suggesting we do?" Oliver snarled back. "It's Felicity! She could have been shot, or —"

"I know, man. I know. But we need a plan."

Oliver glared at his friend, caught between rationality and his overpowering instinct not to leave Felicity behind under gunfire — not again.

"This can't end like the bunker," he said, quietly. "I won't let it."

"So don't," said Lyla, suddenly. She braced her shoulder against the table and heaved, and the heavy wood shifted a few inches without overturning. "We can move this — use it as a shield. Get close enough and we'll cover you."

Oliver was still for only a second more. Then he nodded. "Let's get her back."

* * *

"Sara…it's me," Felicity said, her voice cracking from the pressure on her windpipe. "Felicity."

Sara's teeth were bared in fury. "I told you not to move," she said, without an ounce of recognition in her voice.

Felicity searched for her father, twisting her head painfully to look him dead in the eye. "What — did you — do to her?" she rasped.

Damien had been watching the chaos unfolding in the ballroom with an expression of utter detachment, an expression that didn't change — not even at her accusatory question.

"I made her _better_ ," he said, and turned to Sara. "Almost time. Move ou—"

Her father twisted aside to avoid the flash of silver. Felicity realized it was a blade when the hooded gunman behind him crumpled with a table knife embedded in his throat. Three guesses who had an aim like that. Her heart leapt into her throat — Oliver was still alive, still fighting.

"Not bad," Damien remarked, before turning to his men. "You have orders to kill."

Felicity choked again when Sara picked her up by the throat, and — apparently unaware that it _hurt_ like hell — forced both arms behind her back in a ruthless hold. She was still struggling when a blinding white glow pierced the gaping windows and the wind roared from the whizzing blades of a helicopter.

Her father was a silhouette against the open window, his shadow stretched across the floor by the blaze of the helicopter's searchlights. "Move out!" Damien ordered, and the gunmen began to retreat, using zip lines to cross the death-chasm between the window ledges and the helicopter doors.

Felicity's voice was too far gone to continue, so she struggled, even though the armlock meant that every movement was a shot of agony radiating from shoulder blade to fingertip. The ballroom was a chaotic mix of shadows and uneven lighting, but she could see her friends, still fighting. Barry was nothing more than a crimson blur, clearing the remaining guests out of the room at top speed and systematically shorting out the remaining sonic devices. Diggle and Lyla were picking off targets with perfect marksmanship. Thea and Roy were fighting back to back, like they'd been trained to do, and _Oliver_ —

Oliver was fighting one of the gunmen, his movements nothing more than a flicker of steel. She could sense his desperation, he knew that they were taking her away — and Felicity couldn't call for him, she couldn't make a sound.

They wouldn't have heard her anyway.

Felicity kicked and fought against Sara's strength, even though she knew that she was only buying herself seconds. But if a little more time was what they needed —

"What about her?" Sara asked, in that same, flat voice.

Damien stooped to dislodge the knife from the dead soldier's throat. Amusement flitted across his face at the bloodied table knife in his hand. With tremendous unconcern, he tossed it aside and reached for the dead soldier's belt. He unsheathed a combat knife with a faint _snick_ and twirled it in his hands as he watched her friends fight, like he was deciding which one to hurt.

"Make sure she stops struggling," he said, and hurled the knife towards the fray.

Before Felicity could see who he'd hit, Sara's grip tightened on Felicity's writhing arms and she found herself being shoved down with brutal, muscle-rending force.

When Felicity heard the slick crack of her shoulder popping out of socket, she discovered that she _could_ scream after all.

The edges of Felicity's vision pulsed a nauseating red when Damien took her, securing a cable around her waist and taking another in his grip.

"Time to use your singing voice, I think," he said to Sara, who nodded.

Even in a pain-tinged haze, his order came across as odd. But before she could say another word, her father stepped backward and took them off the window ledge, and the fall rushed the breath from Felicity's lungs before she could scream.

* * *

The last glimpse Oliver had of Felicity was her half-conscious, slumped against Darhk as he disappeared from view — escaped in the helicopter that was growing more distant by the second.

" _Oliver_ — are you all right?" Barry was kneeling beside him in concern, watching as Oliver pressed on his side to stop the bleeding.

Oliver shook his head to clear it, all while his pulse thudded forcefully in his ears.

_Thud-thud._

Darhk had Felicity.

_Thud-thud._

He'd heard her scream in pain.

_Thud-thud._

He'd failed her.

Oliver rose to his feet, refusing Barry's help. No time for that. Darhk had left one of his men behind, a shadow against the amber glow of Starling City at night. He hadn't moved, not when Diggle and Lyla had their guns trained on him.

"Where's he taking her?" he asked, adjusting his grip on the bloodied combat knife — belonging to one of the hooded soldiers, thrown with expert aim. An act he could replicate, if the need arose. "Why does he want her?"

Silence. The night breeze stirred a mane of silvery curls — a she.

"China White?" said Diggle, glancing at Oliver — who had gone very still. "Oliver — stay with us, man. _Oliver_."

"You're outnumbered!" Barry said. "Tell us what you know."

Oliver took a step forward, and another. What he felt was a wound that had become a scar, a scar that shivered now from the phantom brush of recognition. Flashing through his mind were memories of a shadow — leaping across rooftops and vaulting from open windows with the fearlessness of a warrior and the grace of a dancer…her ghostly silver curls catching the light as she ran — always ahead of him…

But it was impossible. It had to be.

His friend was dead.

"Barry," said Diggle. "Get her."

The shadowy figure, the ghost of his friend, drew a deep breath.

"Barry — no!" Oliver thrust his arms out, but Barry was already gone. Electricity crackled the air, but before Barry could reach her…she screamed.

The effect was instantaneous. Barry materialized on the ground, his hands over his ears as the sheer _force_ of the scream threw him back. Oliver was on his knees, the sonic wave pulsating in his ears, his hands digging into the vibrating ground to stop himself from skidding across the floor.

He understood why Darhk had used Sara to cover his escape. The sonic devices he'd used, they only broke glass and incapacitated the senses, but this scream had raw power — strong enough to shift matter, as solid as a concussive force. It was a sonic scream more piercing than any device could ever conjure…and it wasn't conjured. Because it was her — Sara.

She hadn't just come back.

She'd come back as a metahuman.

"Sara!" Oliver shouted, but she was already backing towards the windows. There was a cable in her hands as she stepped up to the ledge, her arms flung out by her sides like wings. Without a backward glance, she leapt…and vanished from sight.

Oliver forced himself to his feet to chase her. Broken glass plunged into the street below, scattered by his feet as he stood in the shadow of the shattered window — searching for any sign of her. Gone, like the phantom she was. The rising wind beat at his clothes, stung the open wound in his side, as though it was forcing him back and away.

Something glimmered at Oliver's feet, nearly forgotten in the surrounding debris of glass fragments. He crouched and picked up a necklace of green and white diamonds, careless of the cuts to his hand from the glass chips. The clasp was broken, and the necklace curled limp in his hand — utterly devoid of Felicity's warmth.

In the ringing silence left in Sara's wake, Oliver looked up, hearing the first wail of a police siren. He shut his eyes — briefly — and his hand closed around Felicity's necklace. Three deep breaths. In those breaths, he allowed himself to feel the fear, the only instant of vulnerability he would allow himself…until she came home to him. Like all those times she'd been taken from him, he was at his most dangerous to her when he was afraid and unthinking — and he needed to see clearly.

For her, he needed to be more. A hunter. The archer. Oliver willed himself to be steady as he felt his senses sharpen, his blood rise. In those seconds, he reached a sudden clarity about what he needed to do — what he _would_ do, for her.

_Felicity._

"I promise," he murmured, and his eyes flickered open in the shadow.

_Whatever it takes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ummmm sorry for making it all go to shite so quickly. I had fun with all this fluff, but it's time for things to get not so fluffy. Doesn't mean any less Olicity, just less rainbows and unicorn tails (for the next set of chapters, at least?). I'm still figuring out the plot as I go (the Sara reveal was meant to be something else, but I decided against it), so yeah, bear with me.
> 
> Remember when I apologized for the abundance of "SURPRISE BITCH" moments? Yeah, that may or may not be about to end soon.
> 
> Oh, and after this I just have one thing to say: WHO'S THE REAL CANARY NOW?! *cue evil laugh and weird dance*  
> Side note: Does anyone think that either Sara or Laurel will get powers on the show? The former doesn't really need it, but it might make the latter more interesting, that's all I'm saying.


	33. Guarding the Guardians

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY - WHO'S STILL BREATHING AFTER 3X20?!
> 
> Sorry, the POV really jumps around a lot here. JK Rowling makes parallel timeline stuff look so easy. (Spoiler alert - it's not)

Felicity really wanted to say that she'd had worse birthdays. But it was a hard assertion to make, especially since she didn't know how long she'd been tied to a chair, gagged, with a bag over her head. Between the zip lining off of a skyscraper, the helicopter ride, and the manhandling over to said chair, she'd lost count of the number of times she'd wanted to throw up from the pain in her shoulder.

Even blind, she knew that it was twisted at a grotesque angle and radiating spider-shivers of pain from joint to semi-numbed fingertip every time she breathed. Felicity had attempted (unwisely) to move her fingers, and the resulting surge of pain had made her want to barf (hopefully on her dad's shoes), die, and barf all over again.

Not that she'd had as much experience with physical injuries as the rest of Team Arrow, but she knew that pain had a way of unapologetically taking up every inch of her concentration until she did something about it. Which she couldn't. Not with her hands bound and basically useless without agonizing pain. At most, she could pretend to be a straw doll without a central nervous system. Which worked, for a while.

Felicity slumped in her chair and ran through the evening of her twenty-sixth birthday, as if it was possible to make sense of everything.

Conclusion: it completely figured.

Nineteen years without a father, a scrapyard full of unanswered questions, and a world to piece back together — so it made sense (because the Universe had a sense of humor beyond human understanding) that as soon as things were starting to go semi-okay, said long-lost father would make a reappearance and flip her world upside down again.

Or, blow up her birthday party and shoot at her friends and family.

Then there was the reveal that he'd brainwashed one of her deceased friends.

But the _real_ cherry on top of the cake was the kidnapping and the possibility of blackmail.

Felicity tensed at the sound of footsteps — and regretted it as soon as the wave of nausea hit her again. An unseen hand whipped the bag from her face, and Felicity blinked, momentarily blinded by the guttering bile-yellow light bulb above her head. It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust, for her to see — faintly — that it was some kind of warehouse, based on the number of crates piled high along the walls. Windows were boarded up — no chance of seeing the five-star view. But the absence of a bag meant that she could take her first unobstructed breath, and she tasted iron — the ferric tang of corroding metal — along with the salt air of the harbor.

_Starling City docks._

"I wouldn't move if I were you," said Damien, from somewhere behind her.

Felicity gritted her teeth so hard that the gag felt like it was about to snap in her mouth. If mental obscenities could deal concussive blows, Damien would have woken up in the middle of a meteor-sized crater — _if_ he ever woke up.

A hand prodded the misshapen bump on her shoulder — and Felicity hissed, but refused to scream. She'd had enough of screaming. The rope around her left wrist was cut loose, and one of the hooded soldiers came into view, kneeling in front of her chair. Felicity glared daggers at him around the gag, which he appeared not to notice, twisting her arm this way and that like he was experimenting with a rag doll.

Suddenly, his hands went still — one was cupped around her elbow, the other holding her wrist in a contorted position. "Don't move," he warned.

There was something about the voice — mocking, quite nearly a drawl — that was familiar, but before Felicity could dissect it, the hooded soldier forced the bone back into its socket, and Felicity lurched forward, fighting the sound trying to claw its way up her throat.

On the bright side — she could feel her fingers again.

Damien's hands came around the sides of her face and undid the gag. It took all of her self-control not to bite his fingers off, or maybe her jaw had locked from all the teeth-gritting.

Almost in tenderness, he rested his hands on Felicity's shoulders (what part of recently dislocated soldier did he _not_ understand?) and looked over her head at the hooded soldier, like a proud parent introducing his child for the first time.

"Thank you, Merlyn," he said. "Now if you'd see to it that we're not disturbed — I believe I have some matters to discuss with Felicity."

_Merlyn?_

"Of course." Malcolm pulled the hood from his face, ignoring the death-glare Felicity shot him. "After all, a father deserves some quality time with his daughter."

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," Felicity spat.

* * *

"You're gonna think I'm insane," said Donna, her hand pressed to her mouth, "because I keep expecting Felicity to walk right through those doors — a little bruised, a little banged up — but _here_. Then she'll sit down and she'll tell me about how she hacked their phones and — I don't know — _blew_ them up or something and got away." She hiccoughed and wrapped the shock blanket around her shoulders more tightly. "This happens all the time on TV, you know? No ransom note means the kidnappers don't want anything, and —"

"Donna," said Oliver, touching her shoulder. "You can't think that, we'll —"

He caught sight of Lyla and John standing across the room. They shook their heads — because even though they'd been evacuated to the hotel lobby, Captain Lance had hotel staff blocking the exits, and forcing their way through would be nothing short of suspicious.

It took all of Oliver's self-control not to curse.

There was a pain behind his eyes, a pain that sharpened acutely when he ran through his last hour with Felicity and thought about everything he'd said to her, about choosing — _her_. Every second he wasted standing still felt like a betrayal of that, because she was gone, and every second as Oliver Queen the civilian was a second less as Oliver Queen the Arrow — one lost chance at finding Felicity.

"Oliver?"

He turned back to Donna. "I'm sorry, Donna, I'm just a little…shaken."

Donna narrowed her eyes at him. "Oliver…do you know what superpower moms have?"

"I don't —"

"— the ability to tell when their kids are lying to them, and Oliver, you and Felicity get the same expression when you're fibbing. Usually when she fibs it's because she's taken apart something electronic and doesn't want me to get mad, but you're _distracted_. No, it's not just I-want-to-get-home-distracted. It's _killing_ you to be here," she said, wagging her finger at him. "You love Felicity, so it isn't you not caring, and don't think I haven't noticed that your bodyguard hasn't stopped circling the exits. What are you trying to —" Her eyes widened "— you know something. Do you know who took Felicity?"

Oliver bit his lip, saying nothing.

"Oliver, remember what I said to you earlier about hurting Felicity? That's 100% transferrable. If you know who took my baby girl and you're not telling me, then I'm going to —"

"We may have a name," said Oliver. "But it's complicated. Captain Lance isn't letting anyone leave, and every _second_ I'm here is time I'm not using to look for Felicity."

Donna watched him for what seemed like an eternity, before getting to her feet and straightening her dress. "What do you need?" she asked.

Oliver didn't hesitate. "A distraction," he said.

* * *

"You never said your ex-girlfriend was a meta-human," said Barry, wincing as he picked broken glass from his forearms. "And that her vocal chords could break windows."

"Ollie," said Laurel, catching his arm with a shaking hand. "Is it true? Is Sara —?"

Oliver nodded, tersely. "I didn't know," he said to them both. "I know it's not possible — but we all saw Sara tonight, and she helped Darhk take Felicity. We need to get her back."

"How are you going to get out?" Laurel's eyes swept the exits. "I can cover for you, but my dad's got the hotel staff blocking off the main doors and he just called for backup. Once the squads get here, it'll be hours before they'll let us go."

Diggle came over, shaking his head. "Captain Lance isn't letting anyone go — especially not you, Oliver. If you have a really good distraction, now's the time to use it."

Oliver glanced over at Donna, nearly impossible to miss in her vivid yellow dress and orange shock blanket. She was making her way over to Captain Lance, and Oliver was just waiting for the signal. "Donna's taking care of that," he said. "Just be ready to move."

"Ollie," said Laurel. "Find Sara. She's not herself, so please…find her. Bring her home."

"I will." Oliver turned to Barry. "How fast can you get to the Foundry?"

"Faster than you," he answered, with a trace of his usual humor.

There was a loud gasp from across the lobby. Oliver watched Donna careen into Captain Lance, clutching at his shoulders as she whimpered incoherently — and very theatrically.

"Good God," said Diggle.

Donna appeared to be losing control of her legs, dragging Captain Lance down onto the ground with her. Caitlin was immediately at Donna's side, checking her vitals as planned.

"Is that a _seizure_?" said Cisco, very loudly.

"Can we get some help over here?" Caitlin shouted, and a few of the hotel staff came running, leaving one of the side doors unwatched.

"Go." Oliver saw his sister slip through the door, Roy just after her. Diggle and Lyla went next, and Oliver was just following Barry when someone caught his shoulder.

Of all the people in the world, it had to be him.

"Wait," said Ray. "Where are you going?"

Donna's distraction wasn't going to last for much longer. Oliver stared at Ray, working to compose himself, to fabricate an excuse in spite of his impatience. There were cuts all over Ray's face from broken glass and a tear in his sleeve that told him he had a tendency for heroism — taking foolhardy risks with no training whatsoever. Oliver needed to handle this carefully. "I have a private matter to attend to. Excuse me," he said, and politely dislodged his arm from Ray's grasp.

"But the police —" Ray grabbed his arm to stop him and Oliver wrenched it out of his grip, rounding on him with an abruptness that made Ray start backwards.

"I don't _care_ about the police," he snapped, ignoring the shock on Ray's face. Maybe it was from the apparent notion that Oliver was abandoning the search effort for Felicity, maybe it was Oliver's uncharacteristic loss of composure.

But the one thing he knew for sure — in that single instant — was that he had no patience to pretend to be Oliver Queen, CEO in front of Ray Palmer, not when Felicity was in danger. Given the choice between a cover and Felicity standing in front of him, safe — he'd choose her. Nothing else mattered, not even this.

Oliver turned without another word and slipped into the stairwell.

The door banged open again. "Is this about Felicity?" Ray was still following him, persistent as before. "Because I know. About the two of you."

"Ray," said Oliver, wishing that he had a tranquilizer dart with him. "I'm only going to say this one more time —"

" _Oliver_." Something in Ray's voice made him stop. Ray was staring at him with a kind of unnerving clarity. "I know what you and Felicity do at night — what your bodyguard Mr. Diggle, your sister, and your sister's boyfriend — what all of you do."

The lights in the dim stairwell flickered as Oliver turned, slowly, to face Ray. "And what are you going to do with this information?" he asked, carefully.

"You mean the information that you're secretly a vigilante in cahoots with my VP, who apparently helps you break privacy and federal laws on a nightly basis? Nothing." A faint smile flickered across his face, in spite of the circumstances. "Because I asked her to help me do the same thing. I'm the ATOM."

* * *

"So should I just make myself some coffee, or what?" said Barry, over the hiss of steam from his side of the comms. "Did you guys decide to take the bus?"

Oliver rolled his eyes and swerved through Starling City traffic. "I get it, Barry — you're fast. Just stay put. We're almost there." Oliver tapped his earpiece to switch calls. "John, where are you?"

"Heading into ARGUS with Lyla, ETA five minutes. She's already put an alert out for Darhk, and she's gonna try to get some boots on the ground. Are you sure you don't need me there?"

"No, I need you to be my eyes and ears in ARGUS. Besides," Oliver glanced in the rearview mirror. "Everything's fine."

"You're the _what_?" said Roy, glaring at Ray from the front seat.

"The ATOM," Ray said — again. "Advanced Technology Operating Mechanism."

"So…the Supersuit. The tin can man who's been taking down thugs in the Glades," said Thea. She gripped the back of the driver's seat and pulled herself forward. "Why are we bringing him You-Know-Where?"

"Because I know your secret," Ray said, more friendly than smug. "Felicity declined to be my partner-in-crime because she had a thing for the Arrow, identity unknown. Later it turns out that she's been seeing and is engaged to Oliver Queen — guy _suspected_ of being the Arrow because the vigilante first popped up after he was rescued from a deserted island. Now, I don't know how your setup works, but crime-fighting is a _pretty_ time-consuming nocturnal habit, and the only way her fiancé wouldn't be asking questions is if he either knows about said crime-fighting and is totally cool with it, or — and I like this one better — he's the Arrow himself. Oh, also — I saw you shoot with perfect aim back when the conference room was under attack, and I think that's fishy."

Roy raised his hand. "Anyone in favor of killing him and tossing the body?"

"Supersuit," said Thea. "What makes you think that you can find Felicity?"

"It's kinda ironic actually, since the only person who could actually find Felicity is — well — Felicity herself, but —"

"Ray," said Oliver. "Get to the point."

"She's wearing the Smartwatch I gave her for her birthday. That thing is programmed for GPS, as long as it isn't broken or turned off — which it shouldn't be, since the parts are sapphire-enhanced —"

"— so you can track her?" Oliver met Ray's eyes in the mirror.

Ray nodded. "I just need a computer, good Wi-Fi and ten minutes."

Thea leaned back in her seat with her arms folded, flicking an appraising glance over Ray. "It's like there's two of them," she said.

"You have five," said Oliver, pulling into the back alley of Verdant.

* * *

"Tea?" said Damien, holding a cup and saucer out to Felicity, seemingly unaware (or not concerned) about the wrist she still had cuffed to her chair.

Kidnapped, hauled into an abandoned warehouse by the Starling City docks…and her father was offering her tea. Even though she probably looked like she'd crawled out of hell and was hence in _no_ position to be choosy, Felicity didn't bother dignifying the question with a response. Damien raised his eyebrows as if he thought very little of her manners and sipped from his cup, adjusting the files laid out on the table between them. Felicity stared at her father, feeling the pieces come together.

"Malcolm Merlyn," she said, ignoring the hoarseness in her voice. "The Bratva. Sandra Hawke. You're the Gamemaster. The _big guy_ everyone keeps dancing around. You chose Gamemaster as your code name? Or did your BFF the Mass Murdering Malcolm choose that one for you?"

The jab sailed harmlessly past her father's unflappable exterior. "The name was hardly my choice, but in all fairness, Gamemaster is an accurate description of my role."

"Killing innocent people."

"The use of that word depends heavily on where one stands, doesn't it?" said Damien, a dark glimmer in his eye.

"Here's where I stand." Felicity's cuffed wrist rattled when she folded her arms, ignoring the pain from her excessively tender shoulder. "Between the abandonment, the dislocated shoulder, the brainwashed friend and your dubious choice of BFF, I'm going to go with: what is _wrong_ with you? Twenty years I don't see you, and it turns out that you haven't just been hiding away on some deserted island, enjoying the fact that you walked out on your wife and kid…you've been targeting innocent people, _killing_ them." Felicity realized that saying it out loud just made it so much worse. "Why, dad?" she asked.

Damien appeared to consider her question, tapping his fingers to his temple. "Like I've said before, innocence is a relative concept. If my twenty years in ARGUS have taught me anything, it's that the world would be a much safer place if innocence was not to be _presumed_ , but reinforced by fact — and the will to do what is necessary.

"ARGUS. So that's what this is about. You're working for ARGUS." Felicity shook her head in disbelief, because she'd once known someone who'd believed in the whole Extreme Measures thing. Vehemently. A Crazy Drone Lady, to be accurate. "And you were trained by Amanda Waller. Color me not at all surprised. Did you also learn that it's okay to blow up an underground city filled with children just to prove a point?"

"Amanda made her judgments based on the greater good. I endeavor to do the same."

" _The greater good_ ," Felicity repeated, with a humorless smile. "So where do I fit into all this? Did you kidnap me to try and get me to join ARGUS? Because I've _literally_ never had a worse job offer…and FYI, I've worked in Tech Village."

Damien wasn't even looking at her. He was reading the file in his hands, flicking through pages as if it was a mildly interesting book in a boring situation — as if she wasn't there. "Raymond Palmer," he said, and Felicity went still. "Bartholomew Henry Allen. Dinah Laurel Lance. Roy William Harper, Jr. John Andrew Diggle. Thea Dearden Queen. Oliver — Jonas — Queen." The names fell from his lips with the weight of accusations, and he snapped the file closed. "Do you know what they all have in common?"

Felicity felt her expression freeze, but she said nothing, not even as she felt a dark chill spread from her core. _He knew._

Damien folded his hands on the table. "What they have in common," he said, leaning forward, "is that they all work with _you_. I've been keeping track of your activities, Felicity. Vigilantism, cybercrime, dispensing justice above the courts and the law, flouting governments and organizations that are better-funded, better-resourced, and better _focused_." He shook his head at the file. "You could have been doing so much more. So much potential, and you waste it on playacting at being a hero."

Felicity swallowed, painfully. "What have you done to my friends? What did you do to _Sara_?"

Damien flicked his head to the side, a blade-like gesture of contempt. "Nothing — to your friends. I merely wish to speak with you about your choices, in the hope that you see some sense."

"You don't get to play that card," she said, fiercely. "Not when you gun down innocent people and brainwash my friend into being your soldier. Sara Lance is _dead_ — we buried her in the Starling City cemetery. How dare you — you — _use_ her like some kind of…puppet! The Sara I knew would never —"

"— the Sara Lance you knew was _dead_. We revived her, and we made her better. She is alive today because of our efforts."

"The Suicide Squad recruits criminals who are clinically alive!" Felicity shouted, straining against the cuff that bound her to the chair. "Sara was _not_ a criminal, and she _was_ dead. Digging up corpses and _experimenting_ on them is crossing a line. So many lines. If you ever thought I'd join ARGUS after finding out that you not only kill innocent people but… _violate_ the dead, then you've got another think coming. A _big_ one."

Damien tossed the file onto the table and crossed his arms. "Then Sara shall serve as a warning. An example of what happens to those who refuse or find themselves unable to conform. Outliers threaten the delicate balance of a calibrated system, something you and your friends fail to understand when you engage in your vigilante acts of justice. The ARGUS you speak of is a distant concept, Felicity. The recent failings in ARGUS administration — if anything — have demonstrated a need to take more radical measures, in order to ensure that the world remains protected."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that ARGUS is prepared to hold vigilantes like your friends accountable for their actions outside the system. We know their identities — we have ways of finding more — and should they refuse to be brought in and evaluated for potential risk status, their identities will be exposed publicly and they will be hunted like the criminals they are."

"They're not criminals," Felicity said, slowly, willing him to understand. "I know them, and they are all _good_ people. They're trying to help their home — a place they love, and they don't ask for anything in return. What part of that makes them criminals?"

Damien stared her down with his dark eyes. "Mr. Palmer's suit utilizes compressed light beams, correct? What if one day — he decided to bring down the Justice Building? Our simulations show that his suit could do it in five strategic hits. Or, if it took his fancy, he could bring down City Hall in three. Mr. Allen — for instance — the metahuman, what if he chose to use his enhanced phasing abilities to rob banks and drain the city's reserves?"

"Stop it." Felicity shook her head. "They wouldn't. You don't know them."

"You're right, Felicity. That's precisely the point," said Damien, with the satisfaction of someone who'd sprung a trap. "I _don't_ know them. You have your faith because you've been privileged with that information — but why should we blindly trust the word of an individual like yourself? Who made _you_ the guardians? Who then guards against the guardians themselves?"

"You're afraid," she said, her voice rising. "You're too afraid to see that they're good people, people who have lost so much, people who sacrificed — _everything_ — to save their cities!"

"No, Felicity, they are damaged, and broken individuals trying to give themselves a higher purpose — to outrun losses they simply do not wish to face. Such are the actions of the pitiable…not the heroic. But I expect your extensive infatuation with Oliver Queen has clouded your judgment."

Felicity flinched, as if a whip had cracked over her head. "Oliver has nothing to do with this. He's lost people important to him, but he's always turned that pain into something… _more_."

"More," her father repeated, sardonically. "Your blind trust — like your loyalty — is certainly admirable. Your choice to marry the man — foolish."

Felicity stared at her father. "What's this really about, dad?" she asked, slowly. "About me helping vigilantes? Or me marrying Oliver?"

Her father inclined his head. "You've always been intelligent, Felicity. Fiercely so. You know as well as I do that a handful of individuals are unlikely to make a difference on their own. Such is the way of the world. In the beginning, perhaps a small collective might have sufficed. But as your ambitions for justice grew, surely you must have realized that joining an organization like ARGUS was the best way to put your talents to better use. I suppose I'm disappointed that you've allowed your feelings for Oliver Queen to blind you — to stop you from seeing the best way forward."

"The big faceless organization isn't always justice. We started this _because_ Starling City was corrupt, because the courts — the law — they weren't getting results. We wanted to help from outside the system."

"Becoming criminals and liars in the process?"

Felicity straightened up in her chair. "If that's what they call being a hero and doing some good…then I guess I'm happy to be a criminal and a liar."

Damien sighed, as if she'd disappointed him. " _Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?_ " he murmured, trailing his fingertips across the table surface.

"My Pig Latin's a little rusty."

" _Who will guard the guardians?_ " he translated. "Who will guard us against you — our unelected champions — when the darkness inside finally breaks free? Who will guard the thousands who have entrusted their safety to the hands of these broken souls? When they cease to be on the side of the angels, what is to stop the ordinary man from paying the price of their hubris?"

"We're not your enemy," Felicity answered, with a level stare. "There's always another way."

"Then prove it." Damien rose from his chair and walked over to her. It took all of her self-control not to inch backward, away from this dangerous stranger. "Prove that your friends are not enemies of ARGUS by having them turn themselves in to ARGUS for evaluation, as a sign of goodwill."

Felicity looked up at her father for what felt like an eternity. She didn't speak, because she was making her choice, weighing everything he'd said against everything she knew — both in her mind and in her gut. A choice that would define them going forward, and she hoped to God that it was the right one.

"What makes you think they'll listen to me?" she asked, with a feigned lightness. "I'm just tech support."

Their heads both snapped towards the warehouse doors at the noise — a disturbance. It sounded an awful lot like…

Explosions.

A slow smile spread across Felicity's face as the cracks in the boarded-up windows flared bright orange. They'd found her.

"It sounds like your friends brought the cavalry," her father said, sarcastically. "Seems rather excessive, don't you think? All that firepower…just to rescue their _tech support_."

"Well," said Felicity, with a comparable level of snark. "What can I say? Oliver's one hell of a fiancé."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again — you guys called it. I'm not very good at this subtle thing, am I?
> 
> Aren't you looking forward to Daddy Dearest having a chat with Oliver?
> 
> Oh, and I brought Ray into the whole thing. In my defense — this was part of the plot outline, BEFORE the whole debacle of season 3.5 Fuckboy Palmer.
> 
> Thoughts on 3x20:
> 
> \- I cracked. Was supposed to wait the requisite 12 hours before I watched the ep, instead I ended up nearly missing my plane because I was abusing the (ridiculously slow) free airport wifi to torrent 3x20. Had a very long staring contest with my laptop until it complied. On the bright side, 9 hours flew by on the plane because of the ep. Which was great.
> 
> \- ACTUALLY AWESOME. OLICITY IS CANON.
> 
> \- The Raylicity "breakup" was kinda like a fizzle. A limp, wet fizzle. Seriously, for a couple they tried to shove down our throats, was expecting them to go out with a little more OOMPH, or, you know, more emotional impact. The Sara/Oliver breakup was this big revelation about Oliver needing someone to harness his light - Ray's was literally paraphrasing what Donna already told Felicity. Nothing new. Nothing groundbreaking. Hence the *radio static* AND DUH, RAY YOU MORON. ABOUT GODDAMN TIME FOR YOU TO GO RUIN ANOTHER SHOW. Don't let the door smack your dumped ass (was that even a dumping though?) on the way out.
> 
> \- Must say, was not expecting Felicity to Irene-Adler Oliver. When they said "morning-after scene" I thought it'd actually be morning. But then — Nanda Parbat is apparently too expensive to CGI during the daylight. Whatever.
> 
> \- Am I the only one who got a little turned on when Oliver said "I am Al-Sahim, Heir to the Demon, and you will obey!"? Just me? Ok then.
> 
> \- Anyone else's heart break at the end, when Oliver so obviously wanted Felicity to look back at him, BUT SHE DIDN'T?! (And then she went crying to Laurel? I mean, WTF?! Was Diggle busy and Roy not picking up his phone?)
> 
> Obviously, I'm not being coherent about this.


	34. Triple Team-Up

"Underground basement of a nightclub," said Ray. "Gotta admit, that's a pretty creative place to hide your…Arrow cave."

Barry looked around in surprise. "You know — I actually have a friend who calls it that. I think you guys would _really_ hit it off, his name's Cisco —"

"— Ramon? Yeah, the guy's cool. I took a selfie with him."

Oliver didn't take his eyes off the monitors. "How much longer is this going to take?" he asked.

Ray cleared his throat and tapped on the keyboard. "Should be a couple more minutes. But the GPS shows that she's still in Starling, that's good…right?"

"If you even knew _half_ the number of lowlifes in Starling City," Oliver answered. "You wouldn't say that."

"Oliver," said Barry. "The second we get a location, I'm there. Felicity's going to be fine. Darhk obviously wants her alive."

"So we don't know why he took her?" Ray frowned in confusion. "What's his name again?"

"Damien Darhk — ARGUS agent." Oliver reflexively checked his phone for an update from Diggle. Nothing yet, besides the fact that the chopper Damien used had been ARGUS tech, but he'd hacked into and disabled the shadow tracking systems. With ease. "He's a hacker," he said, shortly.

"What does a hacker like Damien want with a hacker like Felicity?" Barry asked. "Shouldn't it be the opposite? Like a _grab what you don't have_ situation?"

"Maybe he's her nemesis," Ray suggested. "Don't heroes always have that _one_ super-villain who keeps coming back?"

Oliver didn't trust his patience enough to answer.

"I had the Reverse-Flash," Barry offered. "But he's gone now, so that just leaves a talking gorilla."

"Cool." But instead of letting a silence lapse, Ray had more — infinitely more — questions to ask. Oliver was starting to realize how much of a difference there was based on the person asking the questions. When Felicity had questions, it was endearing. When Ray asked them — Oliver had a tendency to imagine smashing through wooden boards with his bare fists.

"So Felicity didn't tell you that I'm the ATOM," said Ray, pointing at himself. "Just like she didn't tell me that you were the Flash," he pointed at Barry, "or that you were the Arrow." Oliver stared at Ray's finger and tried not to think about breaking it. Thankfully, Ray removed the temptation by folding his arms.

" _Huh_ ," he said, his eyebrows furrowed. "Does anyone think it's weird that all three of us went straight to her with our secret identities? Like weird _ha-ha_ , and kinda weird like _whoa_?"

Oliver pushed off the table in frustration, ignoring the wary stares at his back as he strode over to his sister and Roy, who were digging through the tech Cisco had sent to the Foundry over the last few months.

"Nerd migraine?" Roy said, sympathetically.

Oliver looked at him. "Tense," he said, concentrating on breathing normally. "I want to be out there."

"And maybe poke the tin can man with a few arrows?" said Thea, adept at reading him as usual. "I'll kick him where it hurts — if you want."

"Speedy, right now I don't _care_ that Felicity didn't tell me about Ray. All I want is for her to be…back. As long as that happens, then I don't care if she's been helping — _Captain Lance_ — be a vigilante."

Thea slipped her hand into his. "Hey. Ollie — Felicity's smart, smarter than you, and you always find her. We'll get her back."

Oliver nodded, holding onto his sister's hand. "Thank you, Speedy." He looked down at the tech-strewn worktable. "So what did you find?"

"Cisco sent us instructions about how to recalibrate the earpieces." Thea consulted the text Cisco had sent her. "Basically, it's now supposed to emit a frequency that neutralizes the biological effects of the scream…or _Canary Cry_ — his words."

Roy held out three pairs. "That's all we have, so be careful," he said. "And if Sara hits you head-on with the scream, she could still smash you into a concrete wall."

"I know." Oliver took the tech from Roy, weighing them in his hand. "But it's just an extraction, and Barry's fought someone like her before. Ray can get Felicity out, Barry and I will hold them off."

"I'd feel a lot better if I was coming with you," said Thea.

"But I wouldn't." Oliver divided a look between his sister and Roy. "Only three of us are going to be protected against the scream. I can't have either of you up against a meta with one hand tied behind your back."

"We've been swapping stories, Ollie," said Thea. "Not as if you haven't done that to both of us in the name of training."

It drew a smile from Oliver — however reluctant — and he kissed his sister's forehead. "I'll be fine, Speedy. Don't worry."

Roy glanced over his shoulder at the monitors. "You, I'm not worried about. _Supersuit_ , on the other hand — it sounds like he stands a decent chance of being killed by either you or Darhk."

Oliver sighed. "I'll try to lower his chances," he said.

The computer alert went off, and Oliver looked around. "Where is she?"

"The docks," said Ray, scanning the map. "Looks like they're holed up in an abandoned storage house — number thirteen. Well, that's ominous."

Oliver ignored the comment and reached for his bow. "Change of plan. Ray, unless your suit's waterproof, you're not coming with us. Stay here and run comms. Barry, run — canvass the area, and _make_ _sure_ you're not seen. If you blow your cover there's no telling how many of them you'll be up against. Roy —"

"Whoa — hold up." Ray held up his hands. "Didn't Felicity tell you?"

Oliver made a sound of exasperation. "Ray, we don't have time for this, you're staying here."

"Oliver," said Ray. He was grinning. "Water isn't a problem, because my suit can _fly_."

* * *

"So I get sidetracked for the guy wearing the flying trash can?" Roy grumbled over the comms.

"Roy," said Oliver, bending low over his bike to avoid a sign. " _Focus_. Are you tracking Barry?"

"I have him. He's staying put on one of the rooftops. No trouble yet." Roy sighed. "I mean, can Supersuit even _fight_?"

"You know I can hear you guys, right?" said Ray. "I literally _just_ linked up."

"Yeah," Roy answered. "So?"

"You're completely fixating on the wrong aspects of my suit's capabilities. I mean, who needs to fight when they can shoot compressed light beams from their fingers? I could make an attachment for you, it could be really handy—"

"Not even if the attachment had a compressed light beam that could shoot your face off."

There was a faint scuffle on Roy's end of the comms. " _Guys_ ," Thea snapped. "Felicity is sort of _in danger_ right now — so maybe you guys could fight about your toys later?"

"Guys, you need to get here — _now_ ," Barry whispered. "Something's wrong."

* * *

"Please tell me you can turn those lights off," said Barry, eyeing the blinking blue lights on Ray's suit.

"Oh — yeah — sorry," Ray fumbled with the buttons on his arm, and his suit gave off a faint hiss as the lights powered down — a sound that made Barry scoot further across the rooftop as if he was afraid Ray was about to blow.

"I forget Stealth Mode sometimes," Ray said, sheepishly. "Sorry."

Oliver cleared his throat, turning back to his view of the dockyard below, and warehouse thirteen. The windows were black and empty, which, based on experience, was probably deceptive. But it was — as Barry said — quiet. Almost too quiet.

"Might be a trap," he murmured. "There's no one here."

Ray glanced at the console on his suit. "GPS puts Felicity's watch somewhere in that building," he said. "It's still monitoring her vitals…which are slightly elevated — then again, that's pretty standard for a kidnapping victim —"

"We need to do this quietly. Ray, can you get to the rooftop on thirteen without giving us away? Use thermal sensors — scan for explosives, any sign of booby traps."

"It hurts me that you even have to ask," he muttered, getting to his feet. "One sec — jetting off now."

Barry sighed. "You and Cisco really need to be better friends."

Oliver slipped an arrow from his quiver and fitted it to the string, watching for signs of life in the warehouse. It was taking all of his self-control not to blow through the doors himself, not when Felicity was so close and within reach. But they had to be careful. A man like Darhk — ARGUS trained — wasn't going to hole up in a warehouse without precautions.

As it turned out, Oliver wasn't wrong.

Because Ray was only halfway there when he got hit.

* * *

"Ray — what's your status?" said Oliver. " _Ray_."

Even from this distance, he could tell that Ray was losing control of his suit. "I'm okay," he grunted. "But whatever hit me — I think it severed my weapons con— _whoa_ —"

"Barry — go," said Oliver. "Help him."

Oliver had just reached ground level when Ray's suit gave a mechanical whine. His limbs convulsed, and as Ray struggled to control his flight, one of his hands started to glow.

Oliver heard Ray swear when electricity crackled along the surface of his arm — and fired off a blast in the direction of the warehouse.

_Felicity._

Oliver could have killed him. But he didn't have time to fixate on his anger, because an arrow flew out of nowhere, and forced Oliver to react on instinct. He struck it aside in a shower of sparks and fired one in return — where it was stopped, mid-air, with a loud, clean snap.

Oliver knew only a handful of people who were capable of catching one of his arrows.

"Malcolm," he said.

The blast from Ray's suit had started a fire in the middle of the dockyard, casting the shadows long and brutal across the damp concrete.

"Hello, Oliver." Malcolm stepped from the shadows, characteristically oblivious to the accusations at hand. "Didn't I tell you not to interfere?"

"Unlikely." Oliver shot another arrow at Malcolm. "Why are you working with Darhk?"

Malcolm parried the arrow with his bow, slipping in and out of the shadows — League-trained to the last. "Why are you working with the novices? I thought you and your team had higher standards that that."

Oliver caught Malcolm's kick on his forearms, feeling the force of it ripple through his bones. "I'm protecting my city," he growled.

"Is that so?" Malcolm smirked, even while he grappled with Oliver. "Because this looks like a lovesick trio of boys — vying to rescue the princess. Tell me, how did Mr. Palmer convince you that he wouldn't steal Felicity away at the earliest opportunity? They _are_ terribly alike, after all."

"Oliver?" Ray's voice crackled suddenly over the comms. "Do you trust me?"

"Not even a little," Oliver said, through his teeth.

Ray's laugh sounded more like a wheeze. "Good," he said. "So — don't — move."

Against his better judgment, Oliver slammed his fist into Malcolm's chest and twisted him around with an arm across his windpipe — holding him there to face the blast.

Ray swung around mid-air, his arm glowing lightning blue.

"Barry — _now!_ " he shouted.

Suddenly, Oliver wasn't there anymore — but skidding across the slick ground with Barry, easily twenty feet away from where he'd started. When he looked up, Malcolm was out cold on the ground, faint tendrils of smoke rising from his armor.

Ray landed with a thud, scorching the ground with sparks.

"Is he dead?" said Barry.

Ray shook his head, his limbs still jerking sporadically. "I set it to stun."

Oliver had never traveled at super speed before — but he sensed that it was prone to be a nauseating event as he got slowly to his feet. "Where were you?" he asked, a question directed at Barry.

"Found their chopper, did something funky with the navigation system and the engine controls, then I had to take out ten hidden guards," he panted. "You're welcome, by the way."

Oliver sighted movement over Barry's shoulder and fired.

"Eleven," he said, shortly, as a hooded gunman twitched on the ground with an arrow in his shoulder.

"I knew he was there," Barry muttered, as they began a cautious advance towards the warehouse.

Oliver fitted an arrow to the string, drawing it as he walked. "Where's Sara?" he said, under his breath.

"You can't say that," Barry hissed. "As soon as you say that, the bad guys show —"

A car screeched across the concrete, buffeted towards them by the unmistakable sound of a sonic scream.

"—up," Barry finished. " _Crap_."

"On my mark," said Oliver, and they scattered.

* * *

"So what's your plan, exactly?" said Felicity, as the ground shook from the general mayhem outside the warehouse. "My friends have obviously found me — though I'm a little hazy on the _how_ at the moment — and you're pretty much surrounded. So why don't we call it even and you leave before they find you?"

Her father made a derisive noise. He was standing by the table, his arms behind his back — waiting, just waiting for something.

Felicity looked up at the ceiling. She swore that she could feel the static from Barry's super-speed — he'd probably taken out her dad's guards by now. Guns weren't exactly the biggest concern for a guy who could go faster than the speed of sound.

Felicity shifted in her chair. "All those people you killed — you said they weren't _innocent_ to ARGUS. You used Sandra and the Bratva to target Ray, and I'm guessing he wasn't the only one. There had to be…dozens. So were they?" she asked. "Vigilantes, or just eyesores?"

Her father glanced at her. "No," he said, flatly. "Not yet, anyway."

A chill raced up her spine, lodging itself firmly at the back of her neck. "What do you mean?" she said.

Damien cocked his head, listening. The sound reverberated inside the warehouse, faint, but unmistakable.

The Canary Cry.

Sara was fighting her friends, but Felicity had something else to worry about. A dark thought had begun to take shape at the back of her mind.

"Dad," she said. "Answer the question. What did you mean — _not yet_?"

Damien calmly pulled a handgun from his belt and rested it on the table as he talked. "How do you think I knew your friends' identities? How do you think I knew the names of people like them — foolish, likely to become liabilities — and knew to target them?"

"ARGUS keeps records," she said. "They know about Oliver because of Amanda, and —"

"ARGUS has always kept a database of High-Risk Individuals. But what about the ones _yet_ to adopt a disguise? What about those that would go on to be risks? How were we to know?"

Felicity felt like she'd been hit in the gut. "You were targeting people because you thought there was a _chance_ they'd become dangerous?" she said, wanting so badly to be wrong. "You killed them because you were _afraid_?"

"Afraid of what they might become, yes," Damien answered, without the faintest sign of emotion. "You see, your friends — like so many others — left unchecked are potential risks that ARGUS chooses not to take. There's no telling what they might do. Take Oliver Queen, for example. A psychological evaluation from his time in Hong Kong already showed him to be suffering from PTSD — a condition he never appeared to have dealt with, not when he returned home to take up his activities as an executioner of crude justice. What is to stop him from turning his murderous talents on the civilians of Starling City? What is to stop him from picking up his bow and turning it on you — simply because his mind _snapped_ under the strain? God forbid you have a child — what if he puts an arrow through your infant son or daughter?"

"Stop it," Felicity said, her face white. "You can't _decide_ that someone is a risk before they've acted, you can't kill someone just because you're afraid of what they might do. That's —"

" _Again_ , you show yourself lacking the conviction to do what is necessary. Blinded by infatuation, confused by your association with these dangerous individuals you call your friends. I don't doubt the system, I don't doubt the numbers, the countless calculations and projections…all telling me the same thing — that individuals like your friends are a risk, with far-reaching repercussions to their actions, ones that have and will affect the world."

Felicity's head snapped upward at an explosion outside the warehouse, and she was still breathing hard when she heard the soft metallic click of a gun.

The gun her father was pointing at her.

* * *

Oliver dove out of the car's path and rolled across the slick concrete, coming up with an arrow loaded. The fires had been flattened by the force of the sonic scream, and smoldered weakly in the shadow, clouds of grayish-white smoke that fogged up the battleground like mist rising off a moor.

Their advantage.

The car eventually screeched to a stop, the sound echoing cacophonously in the vast open space, but still, Oliver waited.

_Hold._

No sign of Barry — one of the rooftops, probably. Ray was a bigger risk, given the ridiculous number of lights on his suit, but if he gained enough altitude it wouldn't be a problem. Oliver crouched low in the shadows, studying the terrain and judging the right moment to move.

A faint crunch, a boot on broken glass.

Oliver raised his bow and fired high — an arrow that curved harmlessly into the murk and skittered across the concrete without finding its mark.

Instantly, the smoke was blasted apart by a scream, and Oliver fired a jettisoning arrow in its direction. He heard the solid _thwap_ of the cables snapping tight around a body, and the muffled sounds of a struggle.

The Sara he remembered would never have fallen for misdirection — smoke and shadows was the League's trademark, after all — which made it easier for Oliver, in a way. It helped him remember that he wasn't facing the friend he knew, a woman he'd once loved.

 _I'm sorry_ , Oliver thought, before he turned his head and shouted: "Barry!"

They didn't want to kill Sara, and the only way to stop her from using her scream without risking a head-on attack was to make the use of her power impossible.

The smoke began to churn, sparking with electricity like storm clouds as Barry ran. Oliver watched the clouds begin to draw inward and funnel towards the sky, the blur of crimson around the base telling him that Barry was running circles too fast to see.

A vacuum.

No oxygen, no scream. It hurt to think of Sara inside the vacuum, choking for breath, but Oliver trusted Barry to judge when to stop. They only needed to render her unconscious, and a simple tranquilizer would do the rest.

"Barry," said Oliver, twisting the dart around and around in his hand.

The lightning continued to spark inside the storm cloud.

"43.8 seconds, Barry," said Ray. "Based on Sara's height and weight, she should be passed out by now."

Oliver raised his arm to block the blast of air that swept outward from the dispersing vacuum. Barry materialized, holding Sara in his arms.

"She's out," he confirmed.

Oliver still felt for a pulse in her neck, and slowly exhaled when he found it, beating strong under his fingers. "Alive," he said, more to himself than anyone else. Maybe there was a part of him that still thought Sara was dead and buried.

The tip of the tranquilizer dart slid easily into her neck, and Oliver nodded, stepping back. "Get her back to the Foundry, make sure she stays under."

"Gotcha. If you need me, I'll be back in a flash."

Ray landed behind Oliver with a faint thud. "That's a really bad —"

With a burst of static, Barry sped off, leaving Oliver with Ray.

"So…" said Ray, as Oliver walked steadily towards warehouse thirteen. "Do we have a plan…or are we just using the front door?"

"We're getting Felicity back," he answered, drawing an arrow from his quiver. "What other plan is there?"

* * *

There was a gun in her face, and her dad's finger was on the trigger. Felicity didn't know which fact was supposed to bother her more (probably the latter). As much as Diggle's self-defense lessons went, he hadn't really gotten to the class about how to disarm someone with one hand cuffed to a chair.

"You asked me why I took you, why I brought you here. Part of it is because I want so very badly for you to see sense, but there is another reason. Amanda Waller was a key player in this initiative — in fact, she spearheaded it herself. However, we had a small disagreement on the minutia and I'm afraid I lost track of a rather important device — one quite crucial to the initiative's success."

Felicity's mouth was very dry. "I've never —"

"Don't lie to me. My sources were very clear that Amanda entrusted it to someone outside of ARGUS. Now, I have only one question," said her father, unclicking the safety. "Where is ORACLE?"

Felicity never got a chance to answer, because then — right then — a blast tore through the steel doors and sent the gigantic slabs of metal skidding across the warehouse floor with more sparks than the Fourth of July.

Felicity heard the telltale hum of a charge. "If you move so much as a muscle, Darhk, I'll zap you like a toad," came a voice that was unmistakably Ray's, loud and clear despite the billowing clouds of smoke.

 _Ray_? Well, Felicity certainly hadn't been expecting _that_. But she turned anyway to her dad, trying to look like she'd been expecting him all along.

Quite unbothered by the Metal Death Suit with its (very blinky) weapon systems all revved up and ready to go, Damien watched Felicity, and she knew that he making his hidden deductions, the gears in his genius-level brain just spinning — spinning away. Felicity forced herself not to look at the gun pointed directly at her face, and returned her father's unwavering stare.

It was like something had clicked, and her father — completely without warning — did the absolute last thing Felicity had been expecting him to do.

"I think the gesture rather unnecessary, Mr. Palmer," said Damien, carefully setting his gun down on the table. "I surrender."

Ray was visibly taken aback. "How did you —?"

Felicity yelped and jumped about twelve feet into the air when something landed on the ground behind her — until she realized who it was. "Felicity?" said Oliver, advancing from the shadows.

" _Oli_ — wait —" Felicity whipped around in her chair, like she needed to check that Ray was still there (i.e. not a hallucination).

Maybe it was the fumes, or the fact that she'd gone a little wonky from the pain (or cold) but Oliver and Ray, both suited up and together in the same room only belatedly hit her as a problem.

_Frack._

Even in Felicity's half-dazed state, she knew that there was no way this situation was going to end without her being in some sort of trouble. But there was a more pressing issue to deal with — namely her Bond villain father who had a thing for verbal taunts.

"Ah," said Damien, as Ray unceremoniously snapped a pair of restraints around his wrists. "Mr. Queen, I believe. A pleasure to finally meet you."

Felicity's heart leapt into her throat at the sound of Oliver drawing his bowstring taut. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't end your life, right now," he said quietly, an arrow pointed right at Damien's heart.

Despite the arrow aimed at his chest, Damien looked right at Felicity, who knew that he was toying with them, deliberately drawing out the melodrama of the moment. " _That_ ," he said, "is for Felicity to tell you herself."

All eyes were on Felicity, who decided to jettison the drama — quick and painful. Then again, the truth always was.

"Thanks." Wincing because of her shoulder, Felicity had a brief struggle trying to sit up straight in her chair, but she did (eventually), shoulders back, chin up, and looked everyone — really, _everyone_ — in the eye.

"Guys," she said. "Meet my psychopathic dad."

* * *

Oliver's bow gleamed on the ground, exactly where he'd dropped it when he went on his knees beside her chair. They were alone in the warehouse, Ray having taken Damien outside (unfortunately, not gagged).

"Where's Sara?" she asked, remembering the scream. "Is she okay? Did she hurt you?"

Oliver shook his head. "It's all right," he said, quickly. "Barry has her. She's just knocked out, but Merlyn got away."

 _Frack_. Felicity shut her eyes, briefly. "We'll get him," she said, trying (and failing) at humor. "Or I can dress up as Nyssa again and scare him off."

Silence. Apparently Oliver wasn't in the mood for stupid jokes either. Fair enough, since Felicity was running dry on them.

The lock pick was a faint gleam in Oliver's hands as he worked. As the seconds dragged into minutes, Felicity's chest heaved from the effort it took to control herself, to lean back in her chair and let Oliver finish. It took her a while to realize that his hands were shaking, and his hands _never_ shook.

Felicity felt her eyes flood with tears and she touched his face beneath the hood, because the both of them were trying hard — so very hard — to control themselves.

"It's okay," she whispered. "I'm okay."

Oliver nodded, but only she saw the muscles in his throat work furiously as he wrestled with something unseen, a fear that was — in all likelihood — a dark mirror image of hers. To distract herself, Felicity looked over his head and into the murky dark, at the grimy half-open skylight she hadn't even noticed was there.

"Why the window?" she croaked, laughing in spite of her voice sounding like grit and sand, in spite of the fact that she wanted to cry. "What is with you and hanging out of windows?"

It worked. Oliver huffed a laugh, and pressed his lips to Felicity's hand. "I love you," he murmured.

The handcuff finally snapped open, and Felicity threw herself onto Oliver with a muffled gasp, ignoring every aching bone, every protesting ligament and every torn muscle in her body, forgetting everything except the sound of his breath in her ear and the warmth of his arms wrapped around her tight.

"I'm sorry." Oliver was stroking her hair. "About your dad."

Felicity shook her head, her face still buried in his neck. "Later," she said firmly, because she wanted now to be theirs, just theirs.

There was more, infinitely more that Oliver didn't know — things that Felicity would have to tell him, about Damien, about ORACLE and whatever he wanted with it — truths that would darken their lives with shadows once again. But for now, Felicity held Oliver close and whispered three small words in his ear, three words that had always made a world of difference in the darkness surrounding them.

 _I love you_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the next update, I think I'll have to go on hiatus (or sporadic update period) until May 15 because I have finals until then. I know Arrow finishes May 13 or something which is why it seriously blows that I can't be writing around the time the season finale airs, but I have to pass my exams. Seriously. But hey, on the bright side at least the story won't be finishing that soon, right?


	35. Best Selves

The soles of Felicity's bare feet were cold on the Foundry staircase.

"You guys aren't really in the habit of turning people over to the police, are you?"

Ray had been watching Oliver lead Damien (ungagged, but with a bag over his head) ahead of them into the Foundry. Apparently they had their own close-to-home version of a North China Sea Super-Max, in the form of cages in the back rooms.

Normally, Felicity wouldn't have been in favor of keeping human beings like gorillas, but her dad — having blown up her birthday, threatened her friends and dislocated her shoulder — was the easy exception to that rule.

"Usually Oliver leaves them tied up at the scene," said Felicity, her eyes following Oliver, "but occasionally we get the psychopathic murderer and some questions that need answering. It's not exactly an underground pipeline, but believe me — it's better than the Super-Max in the North China Sea."

"The what?"

Oliver turned briefly, from across the Foundry, to look at Felicity. A wordless question, to which she nodded her answer. The steel door slammed shut behind Oliver and Damien, and Felicity sucked in what felt like her first breath of air.

"You okay?" Ray asked.

They'd reached the foot of the staircase, Felicity in her grimy dress and Ray in his (for some reason) scorch-marked suit, the visor tucked under his arm. "Best birthday ever," Felicity said, and they both started laughing. Not movie-style happy-laughing, but the wholly inappropriate, my-sides-kinda-hurt wheeze of two very tired adults.

"So," she said, trying to breathe normally. "You knew."

"I knew," said Ray, shaking his head. "You and Oliver are perfectly terrible at lying. But I stand by what I said — Oliver's still a great guy, and I just worked with the Arrow _and_ the Flash. I'm in heaven."

Felicity smiled. "Thank you, Ray. The whole thing with the suit — and the Smartwatch — that was genius. Told you the watch might save my life."

"I don't know," Ray said, ducking his head modestly. "You looked like you were holding your own. You always hold your own, actually, whether it's Starling under attack from the mob or the Russian mafia shooting up a conference room. It's one of the things I — like — about you."

"Really," she said, softly. "Well, for that kind of compliment, I might take another look at your suit. You know — glitches, and all that."

"'Course — you can look at it anytime," Ray said, and winced. "I mean — ATOM. Not — the other thing. _My_ thing. Not… _that_ , is what I meant. I —"

"—Ray." Felicity touched his arm, stopping him-mid sentence. "I'm gonna go now, because I have a feeling Caitlin has something to say about my shoulder…and if that something involves pain meds, I _really_ want to hear it."

Ray nodded, still mildly flushed. "I'm really glad you're okay."

Felicity didn't know what else she could say to that. Except —

"Thank you."

Their hands touched for the briefest of instants, like something two friends might do in silent reassurance, and she slipped away without looking back.

* * *

The steel door shut with a cacophonous clang, one that echoed into the rafters. Oliver stepped back from the bars, watching without a word as Damien surveyed his new surroundings. His back was turned to Oliver, his shoulders held perfectly straight and still. The angular cut of his profile shifted slowly from left to right, taking in the steel bars and flickering fluorescents, one of the small back rooms to the Foundry. But Damien had no way of knowing that, since they'd brought him in with a bag over his head — slight compensation for the way he'd treated Felicity.

Oliver felt the faint shiver of disquiet when Damien finally turned his cool blue stare onto him, because — for the briefest moment — it looked like he had Felicity's eyes.

Having only met Donna at first, Oliver had always assumed that Felicity took after her mother. Donna's eyes were the clear color of a robin's egg, a color Oliver knew from Felicity's smiling gaze. But there was something familiar in Damien's as well. It was the shadow that tinted Felicity's eyes a shade darker than her mother's — the color of complexity, fathomless depths and unspoken secrets. Felicity obviously had less of the darkness in her than Damien, but there was undoubtedly a resemblance there, one Oliver found disconcerting.

"Oliver, I presume," said Damien. "My name is Damien Darhk. How do you do?"

"I know who you are," Oliver answered, careful not to betray his opinion of the father who would kidnap his own daughter, a daughter he'd abandoned all those years before.

"You think me a monster," Damien observed. "Felicity — _our_ Felicity — has told you everything that passed between us, and now I must suffer the judgment of Starling City's self-proclaimed champion."

Oliver folded his arms in front of his chest. He was still wearing his suit, but the armored layers seemed to offer little protection against Damien's intense scrutiny. "She said that you want to kill me," he answered, bluntly.

Damien lifted his shoulders, as if it mattered very little. "Unless you intend to turn yourself into ARGUS for a full, comprehensive evaluation. Otherwise, yes — I do intend to kill you."

"I wasn't aware that ARGUS was in the business of regulating the lives of private citizens."

"Are most threats not from private citizens such as yourself, Mr. Queen?" said Damien, innocently. "Do you mean to tell me that a loving father and husband is incapable of strapping a bomb to his chest and walking into a building full of people?"

Oliver glanced down at his chest. "I don't see a bomb."

"Oh, but Mr. Queen — there's always a bomb," he said, cocking his head. "All of them — time bombs, just ticking…ticking…waiting to obliterate everything in their wake. You may not see it — and if I were as damaged as you, goodness knows I'd not want to — but people like yourself, not just those who go on to wear the mask, are all threats to the stability of the world. You change too many things, upset finely calibrated calculations, interfere with greater strategies. Whether you believe it or not, your actions have repercussions, wider than you could possibly fathom…and I am of the opinion that individuals such as yourself should be brought to heel, before the loss becomes too great."

Damien had a hypnotic gift with words, fluid and effortlessly persuasive. Oliver should have been swayed — or at least fighting Damien's hold — but he had survived Ra's al Ghul's psychological manipulations, and Malcolm Merlyn's twisted leaps of logic. He wasn't about to be convinced by what was clearly a genocidal plan in the making — if not already commenced.

Strangely, what Oliver's thoughts consistently drifted to was Felicity. He looked for her in the gestures that Damien made as he spoke, in the every deliberately chosen word. Oliver was looking for something redeemable in a man he already, irrevocably disliked for hurting someone insurmountably dear to him.

While Damien's skill as an orator and his poised grace should have been a credit to him, Oliver only heard Felicity's innocent, uncontrollable — and utterly endearing — lapses in conversation, the unique balance she struck between elegance and clumsiness, the openness with which she carried herself, as if even the simplest conversation was conducted with her heart showing prominently on her sleeve.

Open, trusting, and _light_.

Oliver looked for that in Felicity's father, and found nothing.

"We're all human," said Oliver, looking Damien in the eye. "We just want to make our homes a better place…in the only way we know how. We're all free to choose, and we've chosen a path. It might not always be the right one, but I choose to believe in humanity — the power of good intentions. I don't know if there are others willing to be brought in and evaluated, but I can say for sure that none of us will consent to becoming your dogs."

"Dogs." A cruel smile darkened Damien's eyes, even though his expression stayed unchanged. "Yes, I suppose that _is_ one way of putting it. Do you know what happens to dogs that refuse to learn proper habits? To heel to their master's commands? To _respect_ the hand that feeds them?"

Oliver didn't answer.

"Shot. Killed. Disposed of. Man has never had a use for the rabid and senseless. Believe it or not, Mr. Queen, you and your friends — by refusing to see reason — have become the dogs in this scenario. Whether you consent or not is irrelevant, because you simply _are_. We are better armed, better informed, and in possession of a wealth of resources you could not possibly fathom. You mistake my tone as a request. It is not. Any attempt at resistance will be met with force. I simply tried to give you the easier option by reaching you through my daughter. After all —" The corner of Damien's mouth quirked. "Don't you _love_ her? Enough to heed her advice?"

His words already told Oliver everything he needed to know about Damien's state of approval towards his relationship with Felicity.

"I do — I love Felicity." Oliver took a step forward, until he was just shy of the bars. "I've protected her with my life and I won't hesitate to do it again."

"Hm," was Damien's unconcerned response. "Yes, I've read your file. You joined the League of Assassins, murdering indiscriminately for about a year until you decided to desert, bringing upon your city a war to save your own skin."

"Ra's al Ghul would have razed Starling to the ground," Oliver said, flatly. "I did what I had to do to save it."

"As I remember it, you dragged my daughter into your war," Damien pointed out. "Did you love her then?"

Oliver instinctively raised a hand in warning, to stop Damien from twisting the truth, warping Felicity's sacrifice into something ugly. "Felicity fought to save me. She faced Ra's herself, and she took him down." Oliver searched for the words to describe Felicity — what she was to him — and settled for the bare statement of what he knew to be true. "Your daughter is brave, intelligent, kind…she's — she's _remarkable…_ and I love her," he said, no guile, no twisting of what he knew. Even to a near-stranger like Damien, Oliver would never lie, not about Felicity.

"Even in death," Damien commented, apparently unimpressed. "Last year, in the depths of an ARGUS bunker. I recall your manner of death — a sword. Not that I've had the experience, but it must have been painful. Then again, only a rare few have ever faced the Demon's Head, so I suppose the dubious distinction must be worth the suffering."

The scar in the middle of Oliver's chest shivered, as though stirred by the pass of a phantom hand. "I came back," he said, resting his hand on top of the mark, hidden by his armor. "Felicity brought me back."

Damien turned his head, fixing Oliver with a look of pure skepticism. "Your attempts to utilize _pathos_ are quite admirable, Mr. Queen — if a little obvious. You think that by reminding me of my daughter's misguided devotion to you, I will be convinced to recant my plan and swear against all further progress, all because her fate is inextricably linked with yours, correct?" Damien stepped forward, a faint crunch on the dusty floor. Again, and again, until his face was level with Oliver's and they stared at each other across the bars of a cage.

"Tell me, _Oliver_ ," he whispered, with a gleam in his dark eyes, "what transpired during your miraculous return to life? Death touches us all, but rarely to my knowledge has the shadow ever returned one of our own, and even then, never are they unscathed. So — tell me. What did the darkness leave behind? Did it _chip_ at your already-fragmented psyche? Did it warp and twist the depths of your soul? Or are you so naïve as to believe that all you have is a _scar_ to your skin, merely a reminder of yet another trial you survived?"

Oliver shook his head. "I'd never hurt her."

"I'm sure you wouldn't want to. But when the mind has simply had too much to bear, the temptations take hold with ease." Damien surveyed him with a look of faint amusement. "You're broken, Mr. Queen, even I can see that. All it takes is one well-placed hit —" His hand slapped the bars with a hollow resonance, a noise that should have made Oliver jump.

"— and everything falls to pieces. The darkness inside you grows, Oliver. It rushes to break free, and now I call on you — to invoke the _love_ you believe truly exists between you and my daughter. Turn yourself over to ARGUS for immediate care, before you shatter and Felicity — a woman you claim to love — is the one to pay the price."

Oliver stepped away, from Damien's foul whisper and dark forecast of the future. "You're wrong," he said, simply.

Damien raised his arms, holding them out by his sides. "If I'm not," he said, "you know where to find me."

Oliver tried again. "I know you love your daughter, that's why you're so — _afraid_ — of what might happen if she continues to be the Arrow's partner. But you need to believe me when I say that I'd rather die than let anything happen to Felicity. I love her, and hurting her — I would never — I _could_ never do it."

The steel creaked when Damien's fingers twisted against the bars. "Let me be very clear, Mr. Queen," he said, in a harsh whisper. "A father's love, and what you seem to _think_ exists between you and my daughter — are two very different entities. I love my daughter, enough to want the best for her, enough to be angry that what you call _love_ has turned my daughter complicit in subverting the justice system — that you have put her outside the protection of the law — that through this _love_ you have transformed my only child into a criminal and a liar." Damien made a soft noise of derision under his breath, and pushed off the cell bars. "No, Mr. Queen, I do not approve of you and my daughter, and what she mistakes as affection for you will not stop me from doing what I must."

"From a cell," Oliver said, all courtesy forgotten. "I'm guessing that never figured into your strategy."

Damien merely inclined his head. "You assume the plan hinges on my actions. But like you, I don't work alone, and I don't think you're quite prepared to do what it takes to compel the information from me. Not unless you intend to show my daughter that you're _exactly_ the kind of man I think you are. A broken soul, and a cold-blooded killer."

The lights flickered again, throwing Damien's angular features into even sharper relief, his eyes as eerily black as a spider lurking just shy of the light. In the silence, Oliver could hear the persistent low hum of electricity in the overhead lights, as tense as the connection that — willingly or not — tied Oliver and Damien together.

Felicity.

Oliver never said a word, not when he turned silently to go. His hand was on the door when Damien spoke again.

"Good evening, Mr. Queen. I expect we'll speak soon."

Oliver shut the door behind him and took a deep, shuddering breath of air. His hands were by his sides, and it was only after he started to walk away did he realize that there was a dark trickle of blood from the gouges his fingernails had made in the skin of his palms.

* * *

"Nothing but good news. The lacerations on your hands and shoulders shouldn't scar, and your X-rays don't show any broken bones," said Caitlin, glancing at the monitor as she probed the inflamed ring of muscle and tissue around Felicity's left shoulder.

They were in the medical storage room at the back of the Foundry, since an unconscious and sedated Sara was taking up the main table, and treating Felicity's injuries had necessitated a removal of her clothes. Not that she wasn't close to the boys or anything, but she'd been (oddly) disconcerted by the idea of taking off her clothes while being surrounded by ten guys (the real number was probably around five, but still).

"I don't see any signs of nerve damage, just —" she pressed lightly, and Felicity hissed an expletive through her teeth "— some tenderness. I'll just get you some painkillers."

It was a little difficult to do, what with the thick bandages encasing the glass cuts in her palm, but Felicity swallowed the two pills Caitlin gave her, no questions asked. "Not that anyone should care about my medical opinion, but _tenderness_ ," she said, wincing at the aftertaste, "totally misleading name."

Caitlin smiled at her morbid humor. "Unfortunately I'm going to have to recommend that you keep it in a sling — at least for a week," she said, as she pulled the materials out of the cabinets like she knew them by heart. "I'm actually surprised there isn't more tissue damage. Did Oliver reduce your shoulder at the scene? He's got a decent technique."

Felicity swallowed her gulp of water and shook her head. "My psychopathic dad's BFF, more accurately known as Malcolm the Mass Murderer. Suffice it to say that Thea and I have a _lot_ more in common than I thought."

Caitlin's hands had stalled, briefly, in the middle of adjusting the sling. "I'm starting to see why they put him in a cage," she said.

"I know, right?" Felicity covered her eyes with her hand, vividly picturing Damien in a cage she hadn't had the pleasure of seeing yet (why they even _had_ a cage in the Foundry, Felicity didn't want to get into). "Any chance there's something stronger in that medicine cabinet?"

"Sorry, Felicity," she said. "No alcohol with those pills. Doctor's orders. Now, how's the sling?"

Felicity tried to move her left arm. "Thoroughly immobilized," she said.

Caitlin surprised her with a hug, and Felicity relaxed into it, inhaling the soothing smell of shampoo and nice perfume. "You guys should head back to the hotel, get some rest," she said, patting Caitlin's back. "I think we've all had enough for one night."

"Are you sure?" Caitlin still looked worried.

"Yeah. Of course." Felicity put on her best _I'm fine_ face. "I'm sorry about tonight. The explosions. The guns. Stuff."

Caitlin's smile was warm. "Comes with the territory — you get used to it." She glanced at something over Felicity's shoulder. "I think you have a visitor," she whispered.

Felicity already knew who it was, but it was still a faint surprise (she must have been more exhausted than she knew) to see Oliver standing in the doorway.

Caitlin squeezed Felicity's arm in passing. "I'll check in on you tomorrow."

"Thanks, Cait," she said, softly.

"Thank you," said Oliver, stepping aside to let Caitlin pass.

Just like that, they were alone. Oliver had a jacket in his hands. "You look cold," he said, draping it lightly around her bare shoulders.

Felicity took childish pleasure in wearing Oliver's leather (albeit oversized) jacket, and the fact that he'd come especially to give her said jacket — instead of something like an afghan (Did the Foundry have an afghan? Anyway, something warm). "Pre-cog _and_ archery," she said, softly teasing him. "Building up quite the resume there."

Oliver looked down at his feet with a smile. He had a roll of gauze — one of the few on the steel table — and started to wind it around his hand.

"What happened there?" Felicity asked, immediately alert.

Oliver made a vague sound. "Accident."

"Oliver…"

"It's not important," he said, turning to her. "I called your mom. Told her you were fine — a little confused — and we just need to get you checked out in a hospital before you come in to give your statement."

"Which will be selectively untrue and unnecessarily muddled," Felicity added, lending her knee as a flat surface for Oliver to finish knotting the bandage. "Thanks. How'd she take it?"

"The only reason we got out of the hotel after the police locked it down was because Donna made herself a distraction." Oliver allowed himself a faint smile. "She could tell I knew something, and she trusted me to find you."

"Ah, love," said Felicity, imagining her mom flailing around in a fit to help Oliver escape through the side door. "Truly for the insane."

"She passed the message onto Captain Lance, and it bought us some time. He wants us there as soon as the hospital clears you…which should be in a couple of hours."

Felicity nodded. "Thank you," she said again, looking at her legs as they swung slowly at the knee. The few hours were what she needed to process, and Oliver knew that.

"Your dad's settled in his…room," Oliver said, the tiny pause between words making it clear that he'd been about to phrase it differently.

"You make him sound like he's a houseguest," Felicity muttered, pulling the folds of Oliver's jacket around her bare arms. Attempting to, anyway. The sling, coupled with the thick bandages on her hands, made them just about as graceful as baseball mitts, and the sleeve of the jacket swung free.

Oliver moved immediately to help her, tugging the soft material gently around her shoulders, his hands leaving an impression of warmth where they touched. He didn't say anything while he settled the loose folds of his jacket around her, but there was a look on his face that made her pause.

"Oliver, did you talk to him?" she asked. No need to specify the _him_.

She got a level stare in return. "It's not important," Oliver said, softly. "He cares about you, I think. In his own way. Maybe in the only way he knows how."

"By threatening almost everyone I know?" Felicity felt her temper rise, only because she didn't want to think about it. "What did he say to you?"

Oliver nodded his head and put his arms around her, always gentle, now even more so. He kissed the top of her head, smoothing the million flyaways with a soft brush of his hand. "We don't have to talk about this now."

"No," Felicity agreed. "We don't."

There was a pause, in which Felicity thought about the things they _had_ to talk about, and one glaring omission. "So, in the vein of uncomfortable subjects," she said, already bracing herself for the mini-blowback. "How much trouble am I in because of the whole Ray thing?"

Oliver looked surprised. "Why would you be?"

"Why _wouldn't_ I be?" Felicity started counting off on her fingers. "Ray stole your company, you think he's in love with me — which is ridiculous, by the way — he talks _a lot_ , and we both know how much you like that one. That's a lot of peeves, and add in the fact that he's a vigilante like you…"

Oliver folded his arms. "You think I'd be angry because someone with good intentions saw how intelligent, how loyal, and how trustworthy you are — and asked you to be their partner in saving the city?" he said, evenly. "How could I be angry with him for that?"

"Well…" Felicity made a feeble gesture with her free hand. "The other stuff too."

Oliver made that half-cough, half-laugh sound, looking down at his feet like he was trying to find the words. "Felicity, I'm _honored_ ," he said, lifting his head. "That you chose to stay on as my partner. Ray's untrained and inexperienced, but he's a man of science, he's intelligent…and I can't pretend that you working with him doesn't make more sense."

It took Felicity a second to realize what Oliver was saying. "Than us?" she asked, incredulously. "Whoa, Oliver —" She reached for Oliver's hand with her only unrestrained one, holding on tight.

"When you lost your memory after the Lazarus Pit, Ray asked me to help him. He wanted to save Starling too, he wanted me to move to London with him and help work on the suit." Felicity squeezed Oliver's hand, because she saw the flicker of dazed hurt in his expression. "I almost said yes. But I couldn't leave — _you_. It sounds stupid and corny when I say it now, but even though you had zero — zero — idea of who I was, I still couldn't leave Starling." Her voice softened even more, a harder confession to make. "Most of it was because I still hoped…that you'd remember. But I think some part of me wanted to keep this whole thing — me helping a self-sacrificial billionaire with money to burn and a death wish — just between us."

Felicity took a deep breath, looking Oliver dead in the eye.

"So I don't care…about what makes _sense_. Because it's always been you, Oliver. Even if there are…a thousand Ray Palmers, with suits that aren't in constant danger of blowing up and flight thrusters that aren't a little wonky — I'll always choose you. So don't even _try_ to suggest that I shouldn't."

Oliver kissed her knuckles, bandaged as they were, and held her close again. Felicity wrapped him in a one-armed hug and breathed in his scent, her nose level with the hollow of his throat.

"I choose you too," he said, hoarsely. "I always choose you, Felicity."

A choked laugh rose in Felicity's throat, as she was reminded of what they'd agreed to do (naïvely, in hindsight). To marry each other, today, tomorrow, or the day after that. "I guess City Hall's not on the agenda anymore?" she said, jokingly. "What with my evil dad locked in a cage in the back room?"

Oliver's arms were clasped behind her back, and she felt them hold her tighter still. His shirt was very warm, like he'd been standing near a fire. "I'd say it's still on the agenda," he said.

"Good." Felicity smiled and tugged gently on Oliver's shirt to bring his face down to hers. " _Good_ ," she whispered, just before their lips met.

There were a lot of things she knew about Oliver, from them being friends, friends-plus-something, and together-together. She knew when he was about to take a stupid risk, or when he hadn't decided whether to be angry with or amused by her. Right then, she sensed the preoccupation in his kiss and knew he was distracted. Three guesses why.

"Please tell me you're not thinking about my dad," she muttered. "Because that would be _the_ biggest buzzkill in the history of romance. Ever."

Oliver gently disengaged her hands, taking a step back. It instantly made her wary, because Oliver shying away from her touch was as unnatural as it was worrying.

"There was…something," he said, nearly from across the room. "Your dad said that what we do — it made you a criminal and a liar. That _I_ made you a criminal and a liar." He lifted his head. "He's right. How many lies have you told because of me — because of the Arrow?"

_Becoming criminals and liars in the process?_

There it was. Damien's version of the father-to-potential-son-in-law talk. Felicity heard Damien's toxic whisper, the stalking shadow behind Oliver's words, and it didn't make her thoughtful. It made her mad. Smoke-out-of-her-ears angry that her father had the nerve to try and mind-warp her fiancé, blindingly furious that he'd chosen to hit Oliver where it hurt — his instinct to protect her, and above all, fiercely uncompromising when it came to defending what she and Oliver had, even if it was to Oliver himself.

Felicity slid off the table, wincing at the jolt of her bare feet hitting cold floor.

"Oliver, that's not true," she said, moving closer to him, one step at a time. "In all my time with you, I think the one thing we can agree on is that _neither_ of us have mastered the art of lying — and criminals? We'd be pretty terrible criminals if all we did was put thugs and drug dealers and mob bosses in prison — which we do." Oliver opened his mouth, and she shook her head, cutting him off. "Mm-mm. No. My dad's trying to get under your skin — he wants you to think that we're _toxic_ , that we're destructive — because he knows what you're like. He knows you love me, and he wants to poison what we have. Don't let him take that away from us."

"But because of what we do, you have to lie about who you are. So I have, Felicity. I _have_ made you a liar. In the worst way possible. So maybe…" Oliver lifted his shoulders in a gesture that seemed almost helpless. "Maybe your dad's right."

At times like these, sometimes all Felicity could do — to stop Oliver's thought-spiral — was to grab hold of him. Usually that caught him off-guard, enough to halt the irrational thoughts, long enough for her to get her say.

Felicity laid her hand on Oliver's face and shook him, gently. "Hey. I'm the one who decides who I am, remember? You think that I have to lie about who I am, every day. That's not true. Because I know who I am. I know I'm a hacker and a word vomit prodigy, I also know that I'm someone who cares about Starling City, even though I don't necessarily elaborate on the drastic measures I take to protect it. You think that you make me worse. _Nothing_ could be further from the truth, because never — in my wildest dreams — could have imagined doing _this —_ saving the city…without you. You _changed_ me. For the better." Felicity's hand was over Oliver's heart now, his pulse. "I don't lie about that either. Oliver — we make each other…the _best_ versions of ourselves. Together. Do you understand?"

Oliver shut his eyes and touched his forehead to hers, with a harsh breath that could have been relief…or pain. Felicity pushed back, wanting him to see — to understand.

"You changed me too," he whispered. "I'm myself when I'm with you, and the _last_ thing I want is for you to lose your light…because of me. I couldn't — I couldn't live with myself."

"Never," she said, fiercely. "Never, Oliver."

Their lips brushed, almost, and again, surer this time. Felicity closed her eyes and gave herself — the best version of herself — to Oliver, just as surely as he gave all of himself to her, without reserve, with total abandon.

Theirs, theirs, theirs — and there was nothing Damien could do to take that away from them. Felicity parted her lips and deepened the kiss, communicating without words the hunger she wanted Oliver to satisfy, hoping that he understood her too.

Thank God he did.

Oliver lifted her in his arms, never once breaking apart, and carried her to the table. When Felicity felt the cool brush of steel against the backs of her thighs, she was reminded of another time — of an underground bunker that no longer existed, the first time she and Oliver had decided to be together, consequences or not, in spite of the darkness looming on the horizon.

The strap on her sling came loose and hit the table with an echoed slap. Interfering physical injuries — _check_. Except a sore shoulder was a touch more convenient than three cracked ribs. Oliver's hands spread across her midriff, as if the same thought had occurred to him, and they both shook with suppressed laughter. Felicity smiled and leaned her forehead against Oliver's — a moment of quiet before urgency took over — because she was glad, so unspeakably glad, that things between them had come full circle.

A storage closet at the back of the Foundry was hardly an environment conducive to romance, but neither was an abandoned warehouse at the docks, or a train compartment on the eve of an unwinnable war against a League of trained killers.

It wasn't about the time, or the place. It was so Oliver could hear it from her. As simple as that.

"I love you," she said, without preamble, without prefacing. Just so.

The tiny lines around Oliver's eyes deepened when he smiled, and he tipped her face up to his, a kiss made sweeter by the memories holding strong between them.

"I love you," he said, because he wanted her to hear it too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, the daddy dearest vs. Oliver chat. Also, for argument's sake, assume that I've seen ALL the Marvel movies. Multiple times. Case in point - I've already seen Age of Ultron (second row in an IMAX theater, worst choice of seating ever) and it's pretty good. Scarlet Witch FTW. Shipping Steve/Tony HARD.
> 
> Just got a look at the 3x21 promo. Well crap. Things escalated quickly. Evil Oliver back to Starling. I don't like that earring he's wearing. Bit much, no? I swear to GOD if they make Oliver beat Nyssa in a fight (again), I'm calling bullshit. She's the Demon's Heir, she's been training since birth, and there is NO way, brainwashing or not, that Oliver should be able to beat her. Hoping that clip of her in Nanda Parbat is some kind of ruse.
> 
> I've also been thinking about doing some deleted scenes for You're His Hope - either from when Oliver just entered the League OR an alternate ending with the Lazarus Pit (I told you it could have gone 50/50 with either Oliver or Felicity). Let you know how that one goes.
> 
> Apparently people only start studying for their finals maximum three days in advance. My first final is next Tuesday, and I've been studying for the past month. Is there something wrong with me? Don't answer that.


	36. Tomorrow

Oliver followed the tracery of veins beneath Felicity's skin with his fingertips, careful not to wake her as he followed the flow of blood to her heart. The floor was cold, and goosebumps rose on her skin even as she slept. Oliver instinctively moved closer to shield her from the cold, enclosing her body with his own.

Felicity had decimated the bulk of Damien's verbal attack in a way that still left Oliver feeling speechless. Like her trust in him was second nature, like her defense of him was something she knew by heart. Most of all, it showed him that Felicity was fully capable of opposing her father, whatever he was planning.

But Oliver still hoped that she wouldn't have to. It was a dark thought, one that had no place in this moment — their moment — of shared quiet. He brought Felicity close to him again and smoothed the hair from her sleeping face, adding to the wealth of cherished memories that tied them together.

Partly to see if he could, Oliver pressed his lips to hers, just to see if she'd wake. It was almost wondrous, the way Felicity stirred beneath him, her eyelashes sweeping her cheeks as she started to gather him closer — sleepily, as if she was guiding him home.

"Felicity," he said. "We're going to be late."

* * *

It was rude, Felicity decided, to wake someone post-sleeping-together for non-followup purposes. Just plain rude.

Felicity gave a sleepy murmur of protest when Oliver pulled away. He kissed her neck, but seemed intent on stopping there. "Police station," he said, and hoisted himself off her torso.

Felicity groaned, pushing her head into the shelter of her arm. "I thought you said we had time."

"We _did_ have time." Oliver's look just about encompassed where all the so-called time had gone. That — and the clothes haphazardly strewn across the room.

By the time Felicity picked herself off the floor, Oliver was unfortunately wearing pants again, and if _that_ wasn't bad enough, he seemed intent on helping Felicity back into her clothes.

Then again, fastening a bra one-handedly was no joke.

"That's a lot of self-restraint you're exhibiting there," Felicity commented, as Oliver's hands glided across the skin of her back. "Usually when I ask you for help with my underwear, it's to get it _off_ me, not the other way around."

Oliver reached around Felicity to get her shirt. She was sitting with her back to him, his legs stretched out on either side of her body. "We adapt to the situation," he murmured, his breath tickling her cheek.

"Bah." Felicity obediently ducked her head to get through the neck of her tank top, gingerly working her injured arm through the strap. Oliver gently gathered her hair in one hand and held it out of the way while she arranged her clothes.

"Your dad thinks I'm dangerous," Oliver said, quietly.

It should have made Felicity worry, the fact that Oliver was bringing up her dad again. But something in his tone suggested otherwise, and Felicity looked over her shoulder. "And do you believe him?" she asked.

Oliver tilted his head to the side, his expression contemplative. "He thinks there's a darkness in me — and he's right. But he thinks that it'll make me hurt you — that it's _possible_ for me to hurt you." Their eyes met, and Oliver smiled, faintly. "He's wrong there," he said.

Felicity turned so that she was kneeling between his legs. "Right answer," she said, with a smile that couldn't encompass how unspeakably relieved she was — that Oliver was seeing through her dad's excessively twisted logic.

"Besides, if anything," she added, "I'm the one who hurts you." She brushed the red mark at the side of Oliver's neck, almost — but not quite — hidden by the collar of his shirt. Product of her — um — abundant enthusiasm post-rescue and at things coming full circle.

The mark was definitely going to bruise. Whoops. "Was I too rough on you?" she asked, pressing lightly on the mark.

"Never."

Oliver's answer was a smiling whisper, and Felicity laughed, clambering on top of him before he could stop her. But he carried her easily in his lap, and Felicity would have gladly stayed there for the conceivable eternity. Unfortunately — half of the equation was a responsible adult, and they had an appointment at the police station.

Not to mention City Hall — if nothing else blew up in their faces.

"Speaking of," she murmured. "We should probably do something about City Hall. You know — so when we get married, it's actually official."

Her skin tickled when Oliver brushed a loose fall of hair behind her ear. "That's what I was doing, actually," he said, as if dropping that ambiguous a statement was nothing special.

Felicity nearly fell off his lap when she leaned back. "What?"

Oliver was reaching around her leg, his fingers sliding into his pocket. "That's what I was doing, after settling your dad. I was making some calls, and… _this_."

He held something out in the palm of his hand, and it took Felicity a second to realize what she was looking at.

It was a ring. Simple, unmarked, more gray than silver…like mist rising off a lake at dawn. A wedding band made from arrowheads, larger than her own, because it had been made to fit Oliver himself.

Felicity looked up at him, her lips parted in surprise. "Did you —?"

"Tomorrow, City Hall," he said. "We're getting married."

Felicity took the ring from Oliver herself, and slipped it — over knuckle and bone — until it came to rest at the base of his finger, a perfect fit. Gently, she laid their hands side by side, holding them in her lap, relishing the twin gleam of their rings. It was amazing to her how his hand could feel brand new and the same, all from something as small as the addition of a wedding band.

They were both wearing the rings, and they were getting married. For real.

Felicity started to kiss Oliver's face, careless of her aim — of the fact that they were going to be late — because all she could think of, in the heat of the moment, was —

" _Finally._ "

* * *

The Foundry, emptied of Team Flash and Ray (team name pending) was…easier. Less hectic. Definitely more breathing room.

Sara was lying on one of the long tables, usually commandeered for emergency treatment if one of the boys had gotten hurt…

And that awful day they'd all walked into the Foundry expecting nothing out of the ordinary — wholly unprepared to find their friend lying on the same table with glassy, open eyes and three arrows embedded in her stomach.

Felicity instinctively covered her mouth, as if to quiet her own breathing and make listening to Sara's easier. Her pulse didn't stop racing until she heard it — Sara's breaths, the slowed-down tempo of someone in sleep. Someone alive.

"How is she?" Felicity asked, reflexively checking the bag of saline suspended above Sara's head.

"Since you asked about an hour ago?" said Roy, from his chair beside the monitors. He hadn't taken his eyes off Sara either. "The same. Sleeping."

"Isn't _sedated_ the word for it?" Thea asked, accompanied by the hopeful smell of coffee. The ends of her hair were damp and she'd changed out of her evening dress, like she was hunkering down for a long night of keeping watch. Also (and possibly more importantly), she had two mugs of coffee, one for her and Roy.

"First sip's always the best," said Thea, holding out her mug to Felicity. "Drink up."

Felicity took the burning ceramic in her cold hands and leaned her head affectionately on Thea's. "I love you," she said, completely and wholeheartedly meaning it.

"I know," Thea answered. "It's a shame you met Ollie first, or _we'd_ be the ones getting married."

Roy choked on his coffee. "As the boyfriend, I object to that statement."

Thea leaned her elbow on his shoulder. "Noted," she said, and glanced at Felicity. "Where's Ollie? I thought you guys had an appointment at the police station."

Felicity handed her back the mug. "We do," she said, trying not to think about Oliver waiting upstairs for her on his bike. "Just wanted to check on Sara before I leave."

"You mean 'make sure she hasn't pulled a me and run off'," Roy suggested. "Don't worry, we put restraints on her. She'll still be here tomorrow for the science nerds."

"Hey." Felicity prodded him. "Cisco really likes you. Be nice."

"Oh, I like Cisco," Roy said, bluntly. "It's the Tin Can Man I'm not too fond of."

"He means Ray," Thea added, helpfully.

"I got that." Felicity frowned at them both. "Ray's brilliant. He comes off a little smart-alecky at times, but he's a good guy, and Oliver trusts him — I think."

Two sets of skeptical looks.

Felicity corrected herself. "Fine, Oliver didn't kill him for guessing his secret. Close enough. The point is —" Her phone buzzed. Oliver, probably.

_Urgh._

"I have to go," said Felicity, backing towards the stairs. "But _call_ if anything changes. And _no_ Tibetan Pit Viper venom — apparently that stuff's not good for you."

Roy rolled his eyes. "You and Oliver really need to start trusting us in the Foundry," he said, with his usual brusqueness. "We solemnly promise not to blow up the place. Now quit stalling and go."

* * *

The police precinct was within sight when Oliver braked. He pulled off his helmet and exhaled, his breath clouding in front of his face from the night chill.

"Uh — Oliver?" said Felicity, her voice slightly muffled by the helmet on her head. "I think my helmet's stuck."

With her arm in a sling, her whole body wobbled when she attempted to shift her helmet one-handedly. Oliver hurriedly got off his bike and crouched in front of her. "Let me," he said, and slipped it from her head. "Are you all right?"

Felicity's pale hair gleamed in the dark, falling messily around her face when she doubled over, head between her knees.

"Well, that was graceful. Pretty sure that's why I'm not supposed to be near bikes after taking pain meds," she mumbled. "Note to self — everything always looks cooler when someone else does it, including riding a Ducati."

Oliver felt her forehead. "You don't have a fever, but I can take you home — we can tell Captain Lance that you're not feeling up to it."

"So he can kick in your front door?" Felicity shook her head, then immediately looked like she regretted it. "I am _not_ going to a police interrogation on my wedding day. Let's just get this over with."

Oliver didn't move. "Felicity," he said.

She lifted her head and smiled at him. "I'm fine," she said, firmly. "Promise. Now let's go through my story."

Oliver stepped back, watching her with concern. But the two of them had enough experience with each others' stubbornness to know when to push, and when to reluctantly acquiesce.

Okay," said Felicity, after the third repetition. "You're _sure_ that Laurel's cool with me telling her dad that the Canary beat the kidnappers up?"

"She suggested it," said Oliver, folding his arms. "Captain Lance isn't going to want to pursue a case if it might incriminate his own daughter."

Felicity bit her lip as if she'd been struck by a thought. "We have to tell him about Sara," she said. "But how do you tell someone that their daughter's back from the dead?"

"I don't know." Oliver took her hand, their fingers entwining. "But we haven't done all we can for her — not yet. The Sara we know is still in there somewhere."

Felicity stroked Oliver's cheek, her eyes warm. "So now you're an optimist," she murmured. "I think you're growing as a person."

Oliver leaned in and kissed her, feeling her hand curl against his neck, the soft rush of her breath against his mouth. "Ready?" he asked.

She nodded. "Ready."

* * *

"Masked woman in a blonde wig, huh?" said Captain Lance, scanning the statement Felicity had just signed. "Beat up the thugs who took you? All of 'em?"

Felicity tried not to feel like there was a gigantic red _X_ on her forehead when she nodded. "Yup. She's got a pretty mean swing."

Lance leaned back in his chair, still watching Felicity. "So I've heard."

"Is there a problem, Det—Captain Lance?" Felicity asked, in response to the scrutiny.

"A military-grade helicopter, assault rifles, and one woman takes 'em all down — by herself, before they can make their demands." His tone suggested that her story wasn't as convincing as she'd thought. In hindsight, maybe having the two worst liars in the world come up with a cover story hadn't been _the_ brightest idea.

"I really don't know, Captain." Felicity shifted her sling as if to emphasize her point. "I was in pain, it was really cold, and dark, and everyone was wearing a hood or a mask. It was like some weird…costume thing. _Not_ sex-related, I mean. Just a general kind of weird. Non- _weird_ -weird." She pressed her lips together, resolved not to ruin her case anymore than she already had. "Look, I'm sure my mom's worried, and I really just want to go home. Am I under arrest?"

"You're not under arrest," Lance said, gruffly. "But it's funny how everything with you always seems to involve some kind of mask, eh?"

Felicity sighed. "I really don't know, Captain. I swear I don't plan for these things to happen." That, at least, was true.

Lance slid her statement into a file and stood up. "I'm sorry these guys shot up your birthday. We'll do our best to find out who, but there's not a whole lot to go on." He paused. "Did you put our mutual friend on the case?"

Felicity gave him a diplomatically bland smile. "Kidnappings and hooded gunmen are kind of his thing."

"Not being bogged down by departmental protocol has its perks." Lance held the door open for her. "Now go see your mom — losing you literally gave her a seizure."

* * *

"How long's she been in there?" Donna asked.

Oliver looked around in surprise. He was sitting on one of the plastic chairs outside the interrogation room, a cup of terrible coffee in his hands as he waited for Felicity to finish giving her statement.

"Donna," he said, getting to his feet. "We were going to see you in the morning —"

"— you think I could sleep without seeing my daughter get home safe and sound?" Donna smiled without malice and sat down beside him. "When you have a son or daughter of your own, one of the things you regularly put on hold for them is closing your eyes at night, at least until you know they're just fine."

Oliver smiled faintly. "Well, I hope you don't mind some company."

Donna took his hand and patted it. "Thank you, Oliver. For finding her," she said, watching him with the kind of knowing clarity he remembered from the party.

"I didn't find her," Oliver said, quickly. "It was the Canary. She saved Felicity from the kidnappers, I didn't —"

Donna gave him a look to encompass how unnecessary she thought his deflection was. "I'm not the police, Oliver. I don't need the official explanation, or the whole story, all I need to know is that you promised to find my daughter, and now here she is."

"Here she is," Oliver said absently, his eyes on the door, waiting for Felicity.

Donna sighed. "You know, Oliver, I'm pretty sure the two of you will _never_ have a dull moment in your lives." She turned to him with a fond smile. "Which is why I'm so glad that you make her happy, and that you keep your promises when it comes to my daughter, whatever crazy thing life throws your way."

Just by sitting with Donna, Oliver was reminded of the stark differences between Felicity's parents. Just hours before, Damien had told Oliver that he didn't approve of the relationship, that he didn't trust Oliver not to hurt his daughter.

Now Donna was telling him that he had her trust, that she believed in him, and Oliver realized that her opinion was the one that mattered. She'd raised Felicity, knew her daughter, wanted her to be happy. Felicity — happy. It was all that ever mattered.

"What's this?" Donna said, noticing the ring on Oliver's hand. She turned to him, her mouth open. "Did you…?"

"No," Oliver said, already smiling. "Not yet. But we're planning to. City Hall, tomorrow — and we'd be honored if you could come."

* * *

Donna's happy-jump-and-squeal was undoubtedly more on the subdued side this time, but Felicity shut her eyes and hugged her mom, maybe because a part of her was infinitely happy that Donna had been the parent who raised her.

I.e. the main reason why she hadn't turned out to be a psychopath like her dad.

"Oh, baby — your arm," she said, touching the sling. "Does it hurt?"

Felicity shook her head. "They gave me something. A _lot_ of somethings, actually. It's just sore now."

"Sweetheart." Donna pressed her cheek to Felicity's. "Who did this to you?"

"I didn't see who. It was dark, and the Cana— a masked lady — came and took them all out before they could say what they wanted." Felicity adamantly refused to look at Oliver, because not telling Donna about her father was a choice she'd made. Starling City was dangerous, more dangerous now that Damien was in it, and Felicity knew that if she told Donna the truth, her mom wouldn't leave her — under any circumstances.

So she couldn't tell her mom the truth.

_A criminal and a liar._

If there was anything Oliver had taught Felicity about lying, it was linked inextricably with love, and sacrifice. The kind of love that drove people to do the unthinkable, to do — anything — to protect the people they loved.

So maybe Damien had been right, on the surface. But wrong, so very wrong about the heart of it — the deepest essence of what it was that Oliver had shown Felicity. All-consuming, sacrificial love. The kind of love she was lucky — so unbelievably lucky — to have found, in a world without certainty.

Warmed by the thought, Felicity slipped her hand into Oliver's. "Hi," she said, lifting her face to his.

Oliver kissed her softly. "Hi," he said back. "Everything okay?"

"Mm-hm." Felicity kept her free arm around his middle when she turned back to her mom.

"I heard you had a seizure," Felicity said, with a teasing smile. "Did you see a doctor for it?"

Donna flicked her fringe out of her eyes. "Well," she said, modestly. "Dr. Snow told me it was a one-time thing, very rare. No medical explanation, must have been a fluke."

But the look she exchanged with Oliver was confirmation enough.

"Well, I'm glad you two are getting along," Felicity said, dryly. "Should I start planning the wedding?"

From the way her mom's eyes sparkled, Felicity realized she'd said the secret buzzword. Or the switch that made her mom go straight to squeal-mode again. Either way. Eardrums. _Ow_.

"Oliver told me that the two of you are finally getting married — at City Hall!" Donna threw her arms around Felicity and rocked her from side to side. "Oh, I'm so happy that something _good_ came out of this!"

"A kidnapping…?" Felicity said, weakly. "Mom, we'd really like it if you came to City Hall with us, and you know — be a witness to the whole thing, but what happened to the Big Wedding plans with Thea?"

Donna kissed Felicity's cheek and patted Oliver's fondly. "I'd rather see my daughter get married in a pair of old sweatpants if it means that she's happy and starting a life with the man she loves."

 _That,_ coming from Donna — who wore stilettos and skin-tight dresses just to go to the store — was huge. After the surprise wore off, Felicity laughed and put her free arm around her mom in a hug. So happy that she wasn't Damien, so unspeakably happy that she had a mom like Donna Smoak. "I love you, mom," she whispered, knowing in her heart that tomorrow was going to be a good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY. So, thanks for all the good wishes about the exams. You guys are awesome.
> 
> As promised, the updates up until May 15 are going to be sporadic. I say that NOW, but after watching 3x21 onwards I might go insane and keep writing come hell or high water. Anyways, you guys will be the first to know.


	37. More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, remember when I said I was going to be focusing on exams and sporadically updating? HA. Should NOT have watched 3x21. Seriously.

The arrow pinged off a corner with a tiny burst of sparks and embedded itself in one of the pipes, leaving the target board completely — and pristinely — untouched. Felicity quietly covered her face as steam hissed shrilly from the fissure, product of some _truly_ terrible aim.

"Not good?" she said, looking over her shoulder at Oliver.

Oliver uncrossed his arms. "Roy's aim was worse," he said, evenly.

"Really?"

"No."

Felicity made a small noise when Oliver turned her around by her hips, simultaneously tapping the side of her foot to adjust her position and tugging gently on her elbow to align her arm with where she was shooting.

"Remind me why we're doing this again?" she said, trying not to sound undignified as Oliver corrected the numerous errors in her stance.

"Because," he said, his breath stirring the stray hairs near her ear, "you wanted to learn how to shoot."

"To be fair — I could have meant pool."

Oliver laughed, and Felicity felt it, standing with her back to his chest. His broad palm all but engulfed her much-smaller hand when it came up to adjust her grip, his muscled arm flush against the length of hers. Gently, his other hand spread across her stomach, anchoring her to where she was.

Difficult, very difficult not to be distracted, because Felicity felt…everything. The caress of every breath as it passed between her parted lips, the thrum of Oliver's blood — so, sublimely close when felt skin-to-skin — and the cool glide of his ring, worn on the same hand to mirror her own.

"Now," he said, barely above a whisper, "you draw."

Felicity stared at the heart of the target — a red as vivid as blood, surrounded by concentric circles of pure black. They seemed to shudder as she watched them, as immaterial as rings of smoke.

"How do you concentrate?" she asked, trying not to laugh at herself.

"Close your eyes," Oliver murmured, as the bowstring quivered in her grip. "Trust your instincts."

_My instincts._

Felicity shut her eyes, shrinking her world — distractions, unfiltered thoughts — to the point of an arrow, the arrow between her fingertips. Three deep breaths.

When her eyes opened again, Felicity froze — partly because her body refused to move, partly because she didn't understand what she was seeing. The targeting board was gone, swallowed by the shadows enveloping the far wall of the Foundry, shadows she swore inched closer to her by the second, a yawning mouth of growing darkness.

"Oliver…?" she said, uncertainly.

But Oliver was gone. In his absence was a sweep of cold air across her bare arms, because Felicity was alone, alone and facing the expanding darkness. She blinked to clear her vision, hoping it was a mistake, and blinked again.

 _There_.

She hadn't imagined it. In the shadows, a tiny pinprick of red, quivering slightly like it was being swayed by a phantom breeze.

"You have to choose," said a voice. It materialized like a noxious gas, a foul whisper that wound its way into her senses. Faintly recognizable, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it, not without turning to see for herself.

But she was paralyzed, an arrow in her bow, aimed at the shapeless darkness that inched steadily towards her.

"Choose _what_?" she said, the words falling sharply from her lips like she was standing on a precipice overlooking a void.

"Not _what_ ," the voice answered, sly as a snake in the tall grass, "but _who_."

Felicity flinched at the snap — as crisp as a lever being pulled — and the mechanical hum of an unseen machine whirring to life beneath her feet, and the shadows were suddenly seared away by a ferocious blaze of light, one that left her momentarily blinded.

But when her eyes adjusted, Felicity sucked in a ragged breath.

It was the Foundry, but like she was looking at it from above, an unseen voyeur into their safe haven — not-so-safe anymore. This was a scene she knew by heart, the sight of her friends working together in the Foundry. It was an inexplicably beautiful clash of chaos and order — Oliver and Diggle's methodicalness with Barry and Cisco's enthusiasm, Thea and Lyla's single-minded concern for each of their families, Teams Flash and Arrow, mentor and mentees, friends and partners…

Felicity felt as if she was watching them through an invisible bubble, a veil of protection, one that shuddered as if it was about to crack.

"What is this?" she whispered.

As if in answer, the same crimson lights — pinpricks of blood-red — darted along the floor, traveling unseen over and around her friends, until…

The lights froze, seemingly at random, hovering harmlessly over their heads.

"No," she said, watching as they drifted slowly downwards, and the randomness of it became not-so-random anymore.

Targets. They were all targets.

Her friends were still laughing and talking, oblivious to the laser sights fixed on their skulls.

The bow shook in Felicity's immobilized hands, because after everything, she was still rooted in place. Helpless. "Leave them alone," she said, trying to make it an order — even though it came out sounding like a plea. "They're not the enemy."

"Oh, but they are…"

Suddenly, Felicity knew who it was — who the voice belonged to.

"Dad," she snarled, "leave them alone. You can't hurt them — this isn't real — you're in a cell — this isn't real —"

Still the laser sights wouldn't move, so Felicity pushed back. She could control this — she could control this dream, and she _would._ The more her body refused to move, the more her mind rebelled. The ground shuddered beneath her feet, fissures she couldn't see but felt — spider-cracks widening into chasms — the frantic _pop-pop-pop_ of the lights shattering overhead, raining sparks around her body…

"You can't hurt them," she repeated, as the dream came crashing down around her, around Damien. "You can't — hurt — the people I love."

"Oh, but they're all threats…" Damien whispered again, a disembodied hiss.

" _Dad—!_ "

"…they just don't know it yet."

The dream held itself together long enough for Felicity to feel the hair-raising rush of a volley of deadly bullets, hurtling past her to destroy the invisible glass that had been — without them knowing — their last protection.

Felicity watched it disintegrate before her eyes, felt the punch to her gut at the sight of her friends lying dead on the Foundry floor, the hot tears on her face and the bitter scream tearing at her throat…

Until the unseen barrel of a gun pressed solidly against the back of her skull.

"Where is ORACLE?" Damien asked.

Felicity was on her knees, the insides of her hands shredded from clenching tight around fragmented glass, a shard of ice embedded in her beating heart from the knowledge that it was her fault — all her fault that her friends were dead.

She raised her head, pushing back against the gun like she wasn't afraid. One last act of defiance.

The words forced their way through her gritted teeth. "I don't kn—"

Damien pulled the trigger, and Felicity jolted upright with her hands over her ears — hearing only the phantom roar of a gun shooting her in the head. Her mouth was wide open and gasping, every breath an ongoing fight, as if her body needed to be reminded that she wasn't really dead.

Not dead. There was no gun. Home. She was home. This was her bed — her home — her mother, asleep peacefully beside her.

But even with the knowledge that she was safe (in theory), Felicity's hands and feet slid clumsily across the sheets like they were slabs of slick ice on a moving river, and she was desperate not to drown.

It was a dream. _Just a stupid dream_ , she repeated, her mantra against the wordless panic clawing her insides raw.

_Justastupiddreamjustastupiddreamjustastupiddream —_

The ringing in her ears gradually receded, and Felicity could hear herself think again. Her chest rose and fell with each slowing breath, and she turned mutely towards the still-dark window, as a bead of icy sweat trickled slowly down the throbbing pulse in her throat and came to rest above her racing heart.

* * *

Oliver rested his hand at the back of Felicity's empty chair, scanning the monitors to verify that everything was under control. Damien was still in his cell, and Sara was still asleep on the other side of the Foundry. Everything had gone quiet, like the gears in a vast factory, stilled for the night.

Except him.

Oliver pushed away from the desk, reaching absently for a tennis ball and bouncing it without much conscious thought — force of habit. He calmed himself through practice the way other people calmed themselves with rest. Even though his recent track record with sleep had been more agreeable, there was a part of him that was still apprehensive of surrendering his control to the unpredictable world of the unconscious mind.

But enough of that.

The ball sailed in a smooth arc through the air, and Oliver shot. Two at the same time — three — four — three again. He fired arrow after arrow until his fingertips hummed from the blood racing beneath his skin, but his pulse stayed at an even tempo, as controlled as his stance before he loosed an arrow.

The air rushed past him with a fluid snap when he released the string, a second of held silence until he heard the solid _thwack_ of his arrow striking its mark. The sound reverberated into the rafters, quickly receding behind the perpetual hiss of steam billowing from the grates.

Oliver strode towards the far wall and began to collect his arrows — only realizing that his phone had been vibrating the whole time when he circled back to the table. The fistful of arrows was still clutched in his hand when he reached for the phone, his eyebrow furrowed in mild confusion because of the display.

"Felicity?" he said. "It's early — you should be resting."

Felicity made a soft _ha_ sound, an almost-laugh. "Line forms behind me," she said, her voice scratchy from sleep. "I had a brilliant, meandering apology for waking you up…but I'm guessing I didn't."

"No." Oliver left the handful of arrows on the table and sank into his chair, letting his head rest against the leather back. "You know I don't sleep."

"You do."

Oliver smiled faintly. "You know I sleep better when you're with me," he said, correcting himself.

"Apparently it goes both ways." Fabric rustled on Felicity's end as she shifted her position, and Oliver imagined her curling up in some kind of chair.

"Where are you?" Oliver asked. "Are you in bed?"

"Did you give the telephone operator your credit card number?"

Oliver waited. Humor was one of the many ways Felicity used to deflect focus, to play off her worries.

"I'm on the couch," she said, with a sniff. "Mom's dead to the world…and I'm calling my almost-husband, who's spending the night in the basement of a nightclub."

Oliver sat up, immediately wary. "Are you…crying?"

Felicity didn't say anything, but he heard rustling on her side of the line, as if she was shifting her position again.

"Felicity…what's wrong? Is it your shoulder? Are you taking the medicine Caitlin gave you?"

"It's not that," she said, finally. "Crying…is just one of the nicer side-effects of having a bad dream. And by bad dream — I mean a _freak-tsunami_ of a nightmare. There's no way of saying that without sounding like I'm about twelve, is there?"

"I can be there in fifteen minutes," Oliver said, with an involuntary glance at the staircase. "Wait for me."

"Oliver, I want you to — _believe_ me. But if I remember correctly, Sara's lying on a table resurrected, meta-humaned, and unconscious…and we have a homicidal megalomaniac darkening one of the storage closets." Felicity half-coughed, half-laughed. "Someone needs to keep watch, and you, my almost-husband, got the short end of _that_ stick. So to speak."

"You come first," he said.

"And I love you all the more for it," she said, without hesitation. "But it's only a few more hours. What time does the sun come up these days, anyway?"

Oliver exhaled slowly, not liking this at all.

"Don't brood — you're cute when you frown, but you're _adorable_ when you lighten up. I mean — I know it's a long shot, since everything's kinda crappy right now, but…could you pretend? That it isn't?"

"You know we don't pretend," he said, steadily. "But you know I'm here, I'm listening. You can always talk to me."

Felicity cleared her throat. "Believe it or not, that was always the plan — what with the early-morning phone call. I just wanted to be polite. You know, get you to ask first."

Oliver let his head dip back against the chair, shaking his head slightly at Felicity's ability to confide in him with humor and in earnest. "I did," he said, smiling in spite of himself. "So tell me."

"Everything?" Felicity asked, as if there was anything in the world she could say or do to make him love her any less.

"Everything," Oliver answered, because there truly wasn't.

* * *

Felicity picked at a loose thread in the couch cushion, curled up beneath a lurid blush-and-lilac afghan while she told Oliver about her Franken-dream. Well, at least there was a hidden perk to all the times Oliver had woken her up with his nightmares. When it was _her_ turn to be crazy about bad dreams — he couldn't judge.

"My dad wanted it — ORACLE — and he killed everybody I love — including you, especially you — and then, _then_ , my nightmare-dad shot nightmare-me in the head. Needless to say, it sucked."

It really didn't sound any better when she said it out loud.

"Then I woke up," she said, like she was tying a bow around the story in its totality. "I'm starting to regret not taking Barry up on his offer to dump it in the Atlantic. ORACLE, I mean. Not my nightmare. I don't think even STAR Labs can invent a way to condense dreams into a disposable physical form, but —"

" _Felicity_ ," Oliver said, firmly. "Come back."

Felicity looked up, startled mid-sentence. _Come back_ , something so earnestly simple to remind her where she was — why she'd called Oliver instead of trying (and probably failing) to fall asleep in her bed.

Because Oliver was her anchor as much as she was his. All those times that he'd nearly lost himself — to the island, to the now-forgotten list that had at times been more vengeance than justice, to a league of trained killers, and finally death — they'd brought each other back.

A _nightmare_ couldn't possibly threaten that.

Felicity inhaled, deep and slow. "Back," she said, and felt like her feet were on solid ground again.

"Felicity, whatever your dad did, whatever he's trying to do…it's not your fault."

"Debatable," she muttered. "That saying — _sins of the father_ and all. Pretty sure the karma's transferrable."

"You're trying to stop him, even though he's your father. That's a hard decision to make — and you did. That's more — _more_ than anything you should have to do."

Felicity rested her chin on her hands and said, quietly, "there was no choice to make."

She could hear Oliver shift on the other end of the line, softening his voice to match hers. "And I love you all the more for it."

The strip of light showing beneath her curtains was faintly blue now, a clear morning, a misty dawn. "I've been thinking," she said, twisting the ring around and around her finger as she thought. "Justice. Security. Peace. In some other world — some _bizarro-_ world — _we_ could have been him. We want the same things. We could have been doing what my dad did — targeting threats before they have a chance to hurt innocent people."

"Fear makes us act in drastic ways."

"To protect the people we love, I know." Felicity covered her mouth, nearly lost in thought. "But eliminating threats before they even become threats…that's a world without faith, without free will. Everything pre-determined, no room for anyone to become better than they're expected to be. I don't accept that. Bizarro-you would have been some billionaire frat boy who died on that boat, he would never have come back to save his city — again, and again. Bizarro-me would have been a cocktail waitress, or maybe an IT girl in some big office — no masks, no nocturnal hideouts. Dig would have stayed a bodyguard — not a soldier in a crusade and a protector, Roy would have been a pickpocket — not an archer, and a hero, and Sara — Sara would never have become this _warrior_ capable of fighting for her home…"

Felicity was momentarily at a loss, because quivering in her mind was the totality of her friends' collective experiences, the winding roads they'd traveled that had brought them all together. There was pain and loss and heartbreak in those roads, but that only made the bravery, kindness, and _love_ in the path ahead all the sweeter.

"We're all…more," she said, finally. "More than something a system could have predicted. We're _complex_ , we're… _human_ — not just threats, or assets, or civilians. I mean, what — what if the answer isn't _removing_ threats? What if — sometimes — the best we can do is be ready to face them?"

"That's what we do," Oliver agreed. "It's what we've always done, Felicity, and we'll keep doing it. One day at a time."

Felicity closed her eyes and leaned her cheek on her shoulder. "One day at a time," she murmured, as if she was making a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts on 3x21:
> 
> \- Ray-free episode. Score.
> 
> \- Nyssa is adorable when she's being normal.
> 
> \- It's very difficult to not look at Laurel in all these situations and ask: "Why are you here?"
> 
> \- *Brace for rant about the Canary Cry* I get for aesthetic reasons why it'd be weird for her to close her mouth and use the sonic-fetish-collar thingy, but it also looks weird that she's opening her mouth and screaming when the collar is literally doing all the work. Maybe the answer is - stick with the handheld sonic device. Not as if having it on a collar made the Canary Cry appear when it was ACTUALLY needed (i.e. warehouse fight? Where was it?) I swear, my biggest pet peeve with the Canary Cry is how, no matter what form it takes or who's using it, the Canary Cry NEVER gets more consistently written.
> 
> \- Oliver's face when Ra's tells him to marry Nyssa is literally one of the funniest things I have ever seen. It's equal parts "WTAF dude" and "You do realize this means she will murder me in my sleep, right?"
> 
> It's like Ra's WANTS his own version of the Red Wedding.
> 
> \- Then again, I've chosen not to speculate as to the logic of Ra's' actions since he makes like ZERO sense these days, so whatever. I mean, not to be crude, but given Nyssa's proficiency with bladed weapons (or anything, basically) I fear for Oliver's reproductive capabilities if he ever tries to come near her. And don't go by me here, but I THINK that Al-Sahim's reproductive parts are at least SOMEWHAT important to Prospective-Grandpappy Ra's' idiotic scheme.
> 
> TOTALLY UNRELATED:
> 
> I'm going to be in New York beginning June. ANY SUGGESTIONS ABOUT WHERE TO GO? Any help would be appreciated, the only places I've been to in the States are 1) Minnesota, 2) Disneyland. I was eight and stupid both times. I'm nineteen now and I'd like that to (sorta)change.


	38. A Dream Come True

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Laurel Lance is in this chapter. And Ray Palmer.
> 
> Because I know you guys have missed my helpful warnings.

"Here you go." Felicity narrowly avoided splashing herself with coffee when she passed the mug to Laurel. "Even vigilantes need caffeine."

Laurel had been preoccupied watching over her sister, and looked around at Felicity like she'd just noticed she wasn't alone. "Oh," she said, with a tiny shake of her head. "Sorry, I was just…thank you."

Felicity smiled at her and sank into one of the chairs around Sara's bedside. She noticed a stuffed shark had somehow burrowed under one of Sara's immobile arms, one with the unmistakable patching and wear of a childhood toy.

"Were you talking to her?" she asked, reaching for her own mug. "I do that sometimes."

Even with the corners of her mouth turned down from worry, Laurel looked a little intrigued by the thought. "People in comas can't hear you, can they?"

Felicity lifted her shoulders. Well, _shoulder_ , because of the sling. "You'd have to ask Barry — I told him some stuff while he was still in STAR Labs and I'm too afraid to ask if he remembers anything."

It worked. Laurel cracked a smile, and they both turned towards Sara again.

"She looks so peaceful," she said, absently. "I wonder if she's dreaming."

Felicity scratched at the old scar above her eyebrow, without even realizing she was doing it. "There's conflicting science about sedation and its effect on dreaming, but most scientists say that the dreams are quote- _pleasant_ -unquote. So maybe she's seeing palm trees and white sand. Chinese food. Actual sunlight…" She stopped because the dreams were starting to sound like hers.

"Sara always loved the Starling City Aquarium." Laurel gestured at the stuffed shark with her chin. "She was always trying to talk our dad into one of those shark dives, and he'd always put his foot down — _no swimming with the sharks_. Either a wall of reinforced glass or no sharks, period."

Felicity had to smile at the thought of Captain Lance laying down the ground rules when it came to anything shark-related. "Sounds like your dad," she said.

Laurel smiled too. "I know. Sara would always come crying to me and mom after dad said no, and of course mom would back dad up, so that left me. I mean, she was still a sophomore in high school, and I hadn't even _thought_ about law school yet, but I told her that as soon as I got my first paycheck, I'd book us a holiday with the sharks, and we would both go diving."

"Without telling the parents?"

"Without telling the parents." Laurel laughed into her hand. "We used to get so excited. Well, she did. Ollie made me watch _Jaws_ , so I wasn't really itching to jump into shark-infested waters, but for Sara…I would have done anything. I've kept that stuffed animal since…" Her head jerked when she stopped herself. "...you know. I should have washed it, but it still smelled like her, and — oh God —" The mug slopped coffee over the sides when Laurel set it down, and she hunched over in her chair with her hands over her eyes.

"Laurel," Felicity quickly crouched beside her chair. "Sara's fine. We're going to help her."

"I know — I swear I do — it's just…the last time I saw her on that table," Laurel said, shakily, "I had her blood on my clothes and there were three arrows buried in her stomach. You probably think I'm crazy for checking every five minutes that my sister still has a heartbeat, but…" She swallowed, her voice raw from the fear of losing her sister again. "I just want to make sure she's okay."

Felicity touched Laurel's knee. "I don't think you're crazy," she said, slowly. "I think you love your little sister, and you would do — _anything_ — for her. Whether it's hypothetically losing an arm to a shark, or putting on a mask to honor her memory…to fight for her. That's what the Lance sisters are like. The both of you are selfless, loyal, and so… _amazingly_ strong." Felicity smiled, because she meant it. "That's why I _know_ we're going to get Sara back. She's coming home to you."

Laurel nodded and dried her eyes with the heels of her hand. "She is," she said, nodding again and again. "Sara's coming home."

"Sara's coming home."

Felicity returned to her chair and quietly sipped her coffee while Laurel composed herself, a peaceful silence punctuated only by the steady beats of the heart monitor, and it was a while before she spoke again.

"You're the only one who thinks that, you know," Laurel said, with a faint gleam of her usual steel. "About the vigilante thing. Ollie still doesn't approve."

"Oliver —" Felicity not-so-subtly restrained herself from glancing around, because they were alone in the Foundry. Oliver and Dig had gone to pick up breakfast, and the rest of Team Flash were still sleeping off the night before. "Oliver doesn't get to judge, partly because he takes more stupid risks than most people do in their lives, but mostly because Thea's part of the team now. He just thinks that as long as his sister doesn't get a mask of her own, it doesn't count."

They shared a glance of mutual rebellion. "But you're working on that," said Laurel.

Felicity tilted her head coyly. "May-be."

The doors banged open and Felicity heard the telltale rattle of footsteps descending into the Foundry. Laurel looked a little alarmed at the impending chaos, and Felicity touched her hand. "You're about to see some stuff," she said, bracing her for the onslaught of good-intentioned mayhem. "But trust us, Laurel. We all want Sara back, and we're going to do whatever it takes to get there."

* * *

Felicity wasn't used to seeing the Foundry this busy. She should have been used to it by now, given the frequency with which calamitous situations (i.e. necessitating team-ups) occurred, but still.

They'd even separated into their own zones. Oliver was handling the impending calamity and general tension with his usual calm — taking Roy and his sister's sparring techniques to task, with Diggle as a quasi-umpire and occasional participant. The occasional crash and mechanical whine meant that Ray and Ronnie (the unlikely engineering pair) were still working on some tech in the background, and Felicity somehow found herself in the middle of a Team Flash theory session.

"Wait," said Laurel, her hand on her forehead as she tried to process what Team Flash was telling her. "Felicity told me that the particle accelerator explosion was what created metahumans. Sara wasn't anywhere near Central City when it happened, so how does she have powers?"

Barry nearly skidded halfway across the floor when he threw himself into one of the desk chairs. "Sorry, Felicity — can I borrow this?" he asked, pointing at the computers.

"If you can manage them," Felicity said. "And I'm not being my usual snarky self, I keep the Foundry systems upgraded to about three times the usual processing speed, so —"

Barry yelped when the screen exploded with graphical renderings of STAR Labs' research on the aftermath of the particle accelerator explosion. "Sorry," he said, patting his chest self-consciously. "Was, um — caught off guard. Anyways, Laurel, we've actually seen a gradual increase of metahuman occurrences throughout the region. Not just people who were in Central City on December 11, 2013, which —"

"— was the date the pipeline went ka-boom," Cisco added.

"All along we've been assuming that the particle accelerator is what _caused_ metahumans to develop their powers, but what if that's just a false assumption?" Caitlin said, tracing the graph with her fingertip. "What if the particle accelerator only acted as some kind of _trigger_? What if it was caused by something like a predisposition, a —"

"—gene," said Felicity. "You're saying that there's some kind of… _power_ gene?"

"Metagene," said Cisco. "Which is a _sweet_ name."

"Genetic?" Laurel raised her eyebrows. "So would I —?" She gestured to her throat.

"Develop a pretty destructive vibrato?" Barry volunteered, which earned him a sharp look from Caitlin.

"The research is still pretty thin, and at this point we're not sure if it's hereditary," said Caitlin, placatingly. "But even if you were a carrier, it's highly unlikely that you'd develop powers. Not spontaneously, anyway. It would take an _enormous_ amount of physical and emotional stress to activate the predisposition, which would put most metagene carriers at a dormant state, pending some kind of hugely stressful event."

The overhead lights flickered abruptly, traveling from one end of the Foundry to the other.

Barry had both hands covering his head, as if he was expecting an earthquake. "What was that?"

"Power surge," Felicity murmured, getting to her feet. The sparring noises from the back had stopped too, as everyone's attention migrated towards the far end of the Foundry.

"Ronnie?" Caitlin started walking towards the source of the disturbance. "What's going on?"

Ray's head popped up from behind the whirring machines. "And we have _liftoff_ ," he said, cheerfully.

* * *

"Nothing," said Caitlin, poring over the scans on the monitors. "No irregularities."

"Really?" Ray sounded a little disappointed. "Okay, then — moving scanner to quadrant 17."

"Copy that," said Felicity, tapping one-handedly on the keyboard. "Adapting micrometer resolution now."

The handheld scanner — Ray's own contribution — glowed bright blue as he passed it carefully over Sara's shoulders, all with painstaking slowness. "Did you adjust the optical frequency —"

"—to fit the signal-noise ratio?" Cisco's eyes were practically glowing as he looked over Ray's shoulder. "Definitely."

"So explain to me what you're doing to my sister?" said Laurel, standing at the foot of the table.

Felicity looked up at her, realizing how alarming it was for Laurel to watch a stranger go over her unconscious sister with a machine of unexplained origin. "Laurel, Ray's basically —"

"I'm running some OCT scans," said Ray, flipping the visor up on his tinted goggles to explain his tech. "OCT stands for Optical Coherence Tomography — basically I'm using light beams to scan her tissue, find out if there's a reason she's acting… _different_ from the way she usually is. A tumor of some kind, maybe. This is completely just step one, because OCT technology is meant for surface scans only. Step two is CAT scans and MRIs, and maybe we'll see what the problem is."

"Blood tests," Caitlin added, as if to reassure Laurel. "We're also running blood tests."

"Great," Laurel said, without much enthusiasm. "Who are you again?" She was still looking at Ray with suspicion.

"Oh, I'm the ATOM." Ray had a brief balancing act with the scanning device before he managed to stick out his free hand. "You're the Canary." He glanced at her sister. "Well — half — of the Canary. Or do you go by something else now, since your sister's back? When I say _back_ —"

Laurel turned to Felicity with a _really?_ kind of look. "It's like you two share DNA."

"Uh," said Felicity, trying not to fidget. "We work together in the non-vigilante side of things, so I'm kinda used to it. Like talking to myself. Which I do…sometimes."

Cue awkward silence.

"How about the _Black_ Canary?" Cisco suggested, grinning from ear to ear.

"But they're both wearing black," Caitlin pointed out.

"Well, Oliver wears green, and nobody's calling him the _Green_ Arrow. It's symbolic. And literal." Cisco made a noise under his breath. "Nobody understands the names."

"Oh, I do," said Ray. "I've been following your team's work in Central City. Pied Piper, Captain Cold, that guy who could whammy people…?"

"Prism!" said Cisco. " _Thank you_. Finally, someone who gets it."

"What — everyone — is trying to say," Felicity interrupted, before a fresh round of naming wars could start, "is that we need a little bit of time to find out what's going on with Sara. But we will. These guys are _the best_ at what they do — which, believe me, is _not_ fighting about what to name vigilantes."

"Absolutely," said Caitlin, lending some credibility to Felicity's statement with her doctor demeanor. "Your sister's in good hands."

"I know." Laurel smiled at Caitlin. "You worked a miracle with Nyssa last year."

Felicity noticed that she'd gotten her briefcase and coat. "Laurel, are you going?" she asked.

Laurel frowned. "My boss called me in — some kind of work emergency at the District Attorney's office. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Cisco let out a noise of disappointment, hastily suppressed. "I'll walk you out," Felicity offered, handing off control to Caitlin and hurrying after Laurel.

"By the way," said Laurel, once they were out of earshot. "My friend at City Hall called, and told me that the marriage license is good to go — all you guys need to do is show up, bring two witnesses, and sign on the dotted line after the ceremony."

"You're coming, right?" Felicity said. "Unless it's weird. Is it? It shouldn't be. But if it is — you don't have to. Unless you want to."

"Felicity." Laurel looked like she was trying not to laugh. "Ollie is one of my oldest friends, and I may not have known you as long, but you have always been there for me when I needed it. I've seen you two together, and Ollie has never been more settled than he is right now, with you. So I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Felicity looked at Laurel carefully before she answered, because the last thing she wanted to do was reopen any old wounds, either hers or Oliver's. But Laurel's smile was beautifully innocent, a wordless blessing in and of itself.

"Then, Laurel Lance, I will see you at the wedding," said Felicity, and they hugged.

* * *

Oliver's eyes followed the knife as it continuously changed hands between him and Diggle.

"Pick up the pace, Diggle," he said, and the knife became a flicker of steel between their arms.

"I'm surprised —" Diggle grunted, "— that you're choosing today — of all days — to train — with a knife."

Oliver caught the slip as soon as it happened and opened a small cut on Diggle's forearm. "Just because it's my wedding day doesn't mean I can't train."

Diggle dabbed at the shallow cut. "I can see that," he said, sarcastically. "Not exactly big on wedding traditions, are you?"

Someone rapped on the table with their knuckles. "Knock-knock," said Felicity. "Am I interrupting?"

Diggle confiscated the knife from Oliver and smiled at Felicity. "No complaints here."

Felicity made a face at the cut on his arm. "Yeesh, I should have specified that I wanted zero bloodshed on my wedding day," she said, passing Diggle one of the towels draped across the back of her chair.

Oliver maintained a stoic expression in response to their subtle needling, opting instead to kiss Felicity on the cheek. Despite the fact that she'd been troubled by nightmares, there was color in her cheeks and her eyes were bright. "Hi," he said, and watched her smile.

"I know it's pointless asking you this, so I won't," Diggle said to him, before turning to Felicity. "How are you doing, Felicity? You're taking a big step today."

Felicity wrapped her free arm around Oliver's middle. "I don't know," she said lightly, leaning her head on his shoulder. "After the near-death experiences, explosive fights and all-out wars, marrying this one doesn't seem like _that_ big a step. You know, since we've cornered the market on big moves."

Diggle chuckled, and met Oliver's eyes over Felicity's head. "You two will be just fine."

Felicity squeezed his uninjured arm fondly. "How's Lyla holding up?"

Diggle exhaled, his hands on his knees.

"She has to keep her distance. In case this goes south — she has to be able to say that we were acting independent of her influence. Head of ARGUS holding one of the big dogs under lock and key doesn't exactly look good on a report."

Oliver caught the subtext. "How long do we have?"

"About forty-eight hours," he estimated. "Then we need to start thinking about contingencies."

Oliver turned to look at his best friend. "What about a pipeline in Central City?"

Diggle nodded. "That might work. It's one hell of a commute, but…"

"Better than my dad calling the shots alongside new BFF Malcolm Merlyn? I agree," Felicity said, unequivocally.

The three of them watched as the cool blue light of the scanner glided over Sara's face. The light made her look almost ghostly, like she was lying at the bottom of deep water.

"I know that nobody wants to admit this," said Diggle. "But what if there's nothing _physical_ about what Darhk did to her?"

Oliver felt Felicity stiffen against him. "You mean — if Darhk took a few pages out of the League's book and…"

She never finished the sentence, so Oliver did.

"Psychological conditioning," he said, quietly.

Diggle nodded. "Not unheard of with an organization like ARGUS," he said. "It's not exactly ethical, but…"

"Again — his BFF is Malcolm Merlyn." Felicity breathed out, making a sound Oliver associated with her doing some rapid-fire thinking. "Since we're playing Devil's Advocate here, why don't we admit the obvious and say that things would go a lot faster if I just talked to him myself?"

Oliver's response was instinctive. "No," he said, because Damien was the absolute last person he wanted anywhere near Felicity, not after the way he'd treated her.

Felicity backed away from him to stand visibly in her own corner. "He's the one who brought Sara back," she said, firmly. "He _did_ this to her."

"I'm not disputing that," Oliver answered. "But Damien is in a cell right now. His options are limited — he knows that we're never taking him back to ARGUS, and that the _only_ influence he has left is over you. He's going to use that to his advantage."

"Because _I'm_ the one who let him into my head the last time we talked," Felicity said, pointedly. "I can handle myself around him. I did it with a dislocated shoulder, and I can do it now. This is home territory for us."

"Now hold on," Diggle interjected, before Oliver could retort. "The bottom line here is that no one trusts Darhk, and we shouldn't. Right now, we're all thinking about Sara, and what we can do for her. But no offence, Felicity, but I don't think your dad's the kind of person to volunteer that kind of information, not unless he gets what he wants."

"Which is to stroll out of the Foundry and into ARGUS HQ, cornerstone of Evil Plan ORACLE in hand — I know," Felicity said, waving her hand impatiently. "But who said that I had to give him anything?"

Oliver stared at her.

"He cares about what happens to ORACLE because he needs it for his plan," Felicity explained. "We don't. And last I checked, ORACLE has taken up permanent residence in a military-grade laptop. Hard to break, sure. But not impossible."

"You're saying that you want to blackmail Darhk," said Diggle. "If he doesn't tell us what we want…"

"I'm guessing that breaking a laptop isn't out of your considerable skill-set?"

There was a steely glint in Felicity's eye when she looked at Oliver again, and he shook his head. "No," he said, slowly. "No it isn't."

"Good," she replied, with a smile reminding him that she was more than a match for Damien.

* * *

The door cranked shut behind Felicity, and for a moment, she stayed motionless, a staring contest with pure evil himself. Which technically, this wasn't, since both pairs of eyes had to be open for it to count. Damien's eyes were closed and he was sitting cross-legged against the far wall, like some kind of hibernating evil deity.

Diggle was a lot less fazed. He set a chair down in front of the cell door with a metallic thunk, reminding Felicity exactly why she'd come. Why all three of them had come. Oliver's hand was a steady reassuring pressure in the small of her back, a gentle nudge for her to move forward.

"Thank you, Dig," she said, and arranged herself in the chair, the laptop balanced perfectly on her knees. "Hi, dad."

There was a pause, before Damien's eyes flickered open and Felicity saw herself contained within their depths, a mirror image of herself existing within a world of shadows.

" _Ah_." It was a slow release of breath, a sound that was as sarcastic as it was demeaning. "The triumvirate — the founding guardians — the _hallowed_ trinity. To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?"

"Just checking in," Felicity said, ignoring the snark that was in _no_ way a genetic trait. "How was your night in prison?"

"I've seen gulags in the heart of a Siberian winter, and incarceration camps in summers as hot as hell itself. I've been to prisons in the deepest, darkest corners of this earth," he said. "Did you truly think I would be impressed by your crude attempt at a detention facility?"

"Sorry about that," Diggle said, unapologetically. "We didn't know you were expecting a Siberian gulag, or we would have stocked up on dry ice."

Damien's attention was on Diggle now, and he watched him with mild interest. Dissecting, always dissecting. "The husband," he said, like he was talking to himself. "The bodyguard, and the soldier. I take it, then, that Director Michaels is very much aware of your treason?"

Diggle bristled at the mention of Lyla, and even though Felicity knew he could handle himself, the last thing she wanted was the conversation derailing into territory that would incriminate Lyla as Head of ARGUS.

"Maybe the mass-murdering psychopath shouldn't be the one asking the questions," Felicity said, drawing her dad's attention again.

"Questions?" Damien repeated. "What else, do you imagine, is there left to say?"

"Sara Lance," said Oliver, standing just behind Felicity's chair with his arms stoically folded. "You brought her back. We want to know how."

"No," Damien corrected, with the air of a patronizing teacher delivering an uninteresting lesson. "You want to know how far I broke her spirit — the lengths I went to in order to twist her soul. You want to know if you can _fix_ her."

Felicity snapped her fingers in front of her dad's face, before he could go all Jedi-mind-trick on Oliver and Diggle. "Save it," she said. "We want to know how she's alive, and what you did to her. Explain."

Damien raised a dark eyebrow. "Oh? Rather presumptuous of you — assuming I'd reveal my secrets just because you're my daughter."

"Don't worry," she said, indicating her sling. "Point taken. You're not father of the year. But you _are_ a megalomaniac with a mass-murdering plan, one that seems to revolve around — _this_."

The laptop glowed to life as soon as she opened it, the word ORACLE plastered stubbornly across the screen, as bold as the day she'd first gotten the computer. Felicity rotated it on her knees so that the screen faced Damien.

"You wanted this, right?" she said. "Well, here it is. Tell us how to get Sara back, and we'll promise not to smash it into tiny pieces. Non-negotiable offer, take it or leave it."

" _ORACLE_ ," Damien said, with the first smile she'd seen on his face since they began the quasi-interrogation. "Amanda always did think rather highly of your capabilities."

Felicity hoped her poker face didn't give away the fact that Amanda had basically pulled a last _ha-ha_ on her by giving her the Unhackable Computer. A computer she was currently using to blackmail her dad into giving them information. "In the next room is a guy who can cause hurricanes by running fast enough, a guy who has compressed light beams in his supersuit, and if you're not already spoiled for choice, Dig over here went on three tours in Afghanistan, and Oliver trained with the League of Assassins," she said. "Between them, I'm pretty sure one hard drive doesn't stand a chance."

"Oh, I'm sure you're right." Damien rose fluidly from the ground and folded his arms behind his back. "But I'm afraid the explanation to Sara Lance's resurrection is rather dull. You see, we have operatives all over the world — a _collective_ , if you will. An organization. We'd heard stories of a pit. Shrouded heavily in myth and misdirection, but the gist of it remained rather unchanged. The pit, as I'm sure you know, allows its user to defy death." There was a knowing gleam in his eye, turned in Oliver's direction. But instead of the antagonistic slyness Felicity was expecting, Damien moved smoothly on.

"Our operatives managed to obtain a sample of the waters, and we have incorporated that resource into our scientific advancements accordingly. A curious side-effect, we noticed, was that subjects had a tendency to wake with temporary amnesia. So Sara Lance woke with very little of her memories, which served our purposes quite well." Damien ran his hand across the back of his neck, a gesture that struck Felicity as odd, even though she didn't quite know why.

"So you — what — used psychological conditioning?" she asked. "Psychotropic drugs?"

Damien tilted his head like he was mildly offended. "That's not the way you and I approach things, is it?" he said. "We've always had a way with technology, the two of us. I've always thought of the human brain as a lesser version of a computer. Easily subverted, especially with something as simple as a nano-implant."

"They don't exist," Felicity said, immediately.

"In the same way metahumans and weaponized suits of armor do not," Damien answered, smoothly. "But I'm sure you have your ways of verifying that for yourself. In fact, since you've made it so easy for me, I suppose I'll return the favor."

Felicity felt the air sharpen with the very dangerous subtext.

"What are you talking about?" Oliver said.

"Mr. Diggle, if you would oblige me." Damien spun on his heel. "How does ARGUS keep Task Force X under control?"

"Implants…" Diggle said, slowly.

_At the back of their skulls._

"What else?" He was toying with them now.

Felicity felt her eyes widen. "Oh God."

" _Felicity_ ," Oliver said, his voice suddenly sharp, because he'd realized the same thing she had.

All the Suicide Squad implants had GPS, and if the nano-implant Damien had put at the back of Sara's head was anything like ARGUS tech —

Felicity's chair tipped over and hit the ground with a resounding crash. She was on her feet, breathing hard. "How long?" she asked, still hoping it wasn't true.

Damien produced a tiny black token in the palm of his hand, no bigger than a beetle, easily concealable, blinking steady red like a beacon. "Since the moment you walked into the room," he said. "I'm afraid you've led the hunters right to your den."

"You son of a bitch," Diggle snarled. "You used us."

As if on cue, the ceiling shuddered above their heads, dust spiraling down from the rafters as an explosion rocked the building above them.

Verdant.

"Thank you, Felicity, for delivering ORACLE into my hands." Damien inclined his head. "Your assistance _was_ invaluable."

Felicity turned to Oliver and Diggle with an expression of horror. Her nightmares. Their reality. "I'm sorry," she said, because it was — it was all her fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The irony is strong in these chapter titles.
> 
> Helloooo there, I do realize you probably hate me for making things go to shite again so quickly. BUT in my defence, there's a LOT of fluff in Legacies. Makes sense that I balance it out with some shit-hits-the-fan moments. Anyways, can't wait for the double-crossing in 3x22 to begin! (sorta) I'm so confused about Arrow right now, I just want to curl up in a ball and weep until it's all over and Olicity drives off into the sunset.
> 
> Oh, yeah, and I'm guessing you can tell that the City Hall wedding ain't gonna happen in this chapter. Whoops. I swear I have a rough idea of how to make it up though, so just sit tight.
> 
> As always, until the next update. Cheers!


	39. A Little Further

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh. Why do I bother with hiatuses when I jump straight back on the writing train after watching an honestly TRAUMATIZING episode of Arrow. Urgh. I can't even right now.

Felicity had already run out of expletives, and the squad of Damien's goons hadn't even found them yet. He'd wanted ORACLE and they'd given it to him, gift-wrapped.

"Any word from Lyla?" she asked, the remnants of the unfastened sling sliding off her shoulder. Oliver had loosened it for her, and was at her side now as she worked frantically to figure out the extent of the damage Damien had done. The muscles in her barely-recovering shoulder ached, but she needed both hands free for this, and within milliseconds their systems were searching for ARGUS movements on the traffic grid.

"She's not answering," Diggle said, his phone pressed to his ear. "Something's wrong."

Felicity swore, loudly. "Correction," she said, pointing at the surveillance footage from Verdant. " _Everything's_ wrong."

Oliver took one look at the screen and jerked his head. "It's not Damien's men," he said, shortly. "ARGUS."

They were ransacking the place, blowing through doors and walls and searching the place with some pretty heavy-looking artillery.

"It'll take them a while to find the Foundry door," Felicity said. "After the billionth unwanted visitor, I did a complete security overhaul. That door's like a bank vault — they'd need a battering ram to get through."

"More than that. I rigged the door with explosives, remote detonation." Oliver had turned, scanning the room and the people in it. "They don't know about the alley entrance, we can still get out if we move now."

"Got it." Felicity brought up the register of items they had in the Foundry, an emergency list she'd drawn up but never hoped to use — in case the primary Foundry was ever compromised and they needed to clear out in a hurry. "Weapons, tech, as much as you can carry, and _anything_ incriminating. Dig, start with cabinet four. Roy and Thea, you know where the weapons are —"

"— on it," said Roy, already on the move with Thea.

"Caitlin and Ronnie, we have blood bags here ARGUS can't get their hands on, and —"

"— we're going to need some emergency supplies." Caitlin touched Felicity's arm in reassurance. "Leave it to us."

"Cisco, Barry," Felicity braced herself for the irrational twinge at what she was about to ask of them. "I need you guys to destroy the computers on that side of the room. Everything."

"Wait…" said Cisco, uncertainly. " _Destroy_? Not just wipe?"

"Guys." Barry looked like he was seeing his fantasy disintegrate, and in a way — she supposed it was. The Foundry, the vigilante safe haven. Gone. "You're not coming back?" he said.

For a moment, there was only the thud of her heart in her ears and the sudden silence as everyone went still. Felicity looked from Diggle to Oliver. "This was home," she said, reading what was on their faces just as surely as they could read it off hers. "But there's no coming back from this."

Oliver nodded, and Felicity knew what it cost him. "No coming back."

Diggle looked up at another not-so-far-off explosion. "We need to move — _now_. Let's go, people!"

Everyone rushed to do what they had to. Meanwhile, the lights flickered overhead, but Oliver didn't move away from Felicity. They stared at each other, a stand-off, a silent understanding. Even though she couldn't see her own expression, she knew that she had the same look on her face as well. The same realization.

_I know what you're planning because I'm planning it too._

Another crisis, another evacuation. Felicity had been the one to hit the switch, then. Now…Oliver seemed bent on making sure she wasn't alone.

"I'm not leaving you behind," he said. "Not this time."

Felicity turned to the computer with a humorless smile, because through all of it — Oliver still knew her to a fault. "First things first," she said, her mind racing ahead of the situation. She hooked up ORACLE to the mass of wires needed for a pretty major upload, something she never thought she'd have to use again.

Oliver frowned, watching what was happening over her shoulder. "Is that…?"

Felicity nodded her head as she typed. "Yup — and it's going into ORACLE. A little present for my dad when he unlocks it."

"Uh, guys? What am I supposed to be doing?" Ray asked, standing awkwardly — emergency evac and all — behind them.

Felicity made sure the upload was in progress before she used her teeth to loosen the strap on the Smartwatch around her wrist, and reached for her tablet with the other. "The both of you," she said, meaning Oliver and Ray, "are going to help me save Sara."

* * *

The one good thing about Damien being an insufferable egotistical maniac — he'd done the super villain thing by telling her the super-evil plan. Partly. Enough for her to do something about the chip he had planted in her friend's skull. It was all so obvious now — the backs of their necks. Sandra, with the Bratva tattoo hiding a scar from an implant operation, and Sara, the Trojan horse they'd taken in — just like Damien had been expecting them to — because he knew they'd never leave a friend behind.

"Felicity, I'm not doubting you — or Dr. Snow's — medical expertise," said Ray, as Felicity patched into the Smartwatch using her tablet, "but I don't think you can perform craniotomies in under four minutes. Even if you _are_ the smartest person I know."

"You're right," she answered, and wrapped the Smartwatch around Sara's forearm. "That's why I'm using them on a nano-implant. Specifically, one at the back of her skull. You guys are going to get her out of here, and she can't have an active tracker — or her brainwashed tendencies — intact when that happens."

"Not to be pedantic or anything, but your choice of words makes it seem like you're not planning on being there," Ray said, watching her very carefully.

Thankfully, Oliver saved her from having to answer. "We're running out of time," he said, brusquely. "What do you need me to do?"

"Oliver, I don't know if she's going to fight back, so hold her down. Ray, I need you monitoring vitals. _Go!_ "

Felicity prayed that she wasn't going wrong with this. Fortunately, one of the perks of time constraints meant that the long mental debates were decidedly on the abridged side.

"Delivering the nanites in three — two — _one_." Felicity hit the button and there was a crisp metallic punch from the watch, along with a confirmation from the tracking program that the nanites were in Sara's bloodstream.

That was the easy part. The hard part was figuring out exactly how good at computers her dad was. The nanites had converged on the implant when she began the decryption process on the chip's interface.

"Okay, hopefully this works — _frack_ —"

The heart monitors shrilled and Sara's whole body jerked, her body arched at the base of her spine like there was an invisible hand yanking her up by the waist. Oliver held onto her legs while she went into cardiac arrest.

"Sara!" he shouted. "Sara — stay with us!"

Felicity stared at the tablet, trying to figure out how everything was going so spectacularly wrong. "Ray, what's going on?" she yelled, over the screaming machinery.

"It's a minor side-effect!" Ray was tapping rapidly on the keyboard. "The nanites just need a few seconds to —"

Two things happened. The first was Sara's heart starting again, and the second —

Was a blip, and monitors around Sara were dominated suddenly by a sixty-second countdown.

"What the hell is that?" Ray hit the keyboard, with no response.

Felicity swore. "I'm guessing that's a failsafe in case of tampering. If I don't disable it in — well — _now_ , Sara's probably going to suffer a fatal induced embolism, or we're going to be blown sky-high from the explosive charge in that implant."

Ray's eyes had never been bigger. "Felicity —!"

"Can you disable it?" Oliver asked, ignoring Ray.

Felicity nodded, typing at triple-speed. "I have to."

_Forty-five._

Forget the fact that she was hacking something _inside_ her friend's body.

_Thirty-nine._

Forget the fact that she'd never done anything like this before.

_Thirty-two._

Because like father like daughter. A computer was a computer.

_Twenty-five._

Four thousand access points, nearly all of them with an adaptable firewall.

_Twenty-one._

Fortunately, _that_ was something she'd seen before.

"I'm in!" she said, forcing her hands not to shake until she had it. Control of the thing that controlled her friend. Initiating a complete and utter shutdown. No cognitive usurpation, no remote tracking — nothing. The countdown froze at fifteen seconds before disappearing completely.

"She's okay," Felicity said, scanning the tablet screen for confirmation that the implant was inactive. "Sara's back."

There was another beep from the computers signaling that the upload to ORACLE was complete. Which left one last thing for them to do.

* * *

Seven on one side, two on the other. Oliver watched Felicity brush Sara's hair off her face, one final gesture of tenderness before she stepped back from Barry, who had their friend in his arms.

They were at the foot of the back stairwell, so close to their way out.

"What?" said Roy, uncharacteristically quiet with disbelief.

"Ollie, why are we still discussing this?" said Thea, pulling at his arm. "We need to get out of here — _now_."

" _Wait_ ," Felicity said, and everyone turned to her. She was speaking rapidly, a sign that she was afraid, very afraid. "Damien wants ORACLE — he's going to hunt us for it. If we run now, he'll use every weapon he has left in his arsenal. He knows all of your names, and I _guarantee_ that unless he gets ORACLE, the evening news is going to have a field day with the billionaire in a supersuit and the guy who can run faster than the speed of light."

"So you're suggesting we should get arrested?" Ray said, his question directed at Oliver, as if he was meant to be the voice of sanity against Felicity's plan.

Without a word, Felicity met Oliver's eyes, and her hand slipped into his, their fingers lacing tight, a gesture not unnoticed by their disbelieving audience.

"Someone does," Oliver answered, turning his head to look all of them in the eye — Diggle, Barry and his team, Ray, Roy, his sister… "But not you. None of you."

"Ollie — what are you saying?" Thea's voice was a harsh whisper.

"Damien won't stop unless he's been placated in some way — unless he's got the pieces he wants in one hand. If me and Oliver turn ourselves in, it's ORACLE _and_ the Arrow." Felicity's grip on his hand tightened as she pleaded for their friends to understand. "I don't have time to explain, but right now, the only way I can stall my dad is if he unlocks this computer. Then we can prison-break the hell out of ARGUS."

"We can't let you do that. Even if it's only temporary, which, by the way, I'm not seeing how." Barry stepped forward, Sara swinging limply in his arms. He glared fiercely at Oliver, and it was a dull blow to his gut because he knew that Barry had expected more, so much more. "You guys — you _started_ this. All of this. If we left you behind, it'd be like… _betraying_ what you stand for."

"Barry…" Oliver began.

"—ORACLE," Diggle interrupted. "The Arrow, and the soldier." He lifted his head and stared at them both. "I think the three that started it all should be enough for Damien Darhk."

Oliver exchanged a look with Felicity, both of them momentarily caught in a pause of mutual surprise.

"John." Oliver shook his head. "We can't let you do that. Someone needs to lead —"

"—and you have Sara," Felicity added.

"But not Lyla," Diggle said, in his usual blunt way, but Oliver heard a faint ripple of raw emotion. Fear he wasn't letting himself feel, until he saw the person who could set it all at ease. That was a feeling he knew.

"If ARGUS agents are the ones breaking down the Foundry door, it means that something went very wrong inside HQ, and I need to find my wife. And Sara —" Diggle looked at Thea and Roy. "I'm counting on you both to take care of her — until I bring her mother home."

"John…" Oliver said, again.

Diggle gripped his shoulder. "Since when have I ever let you risk your neck alone?"

Then, right then, Oliver realized there was nothing he could do or say to stop his best friend from following him. So he nodded.

Thea made an exasperated noise. "Of _course_ , we'll take care of Sara, but that's _not_ a reason for you — for _any_ of you — to stay behind," she said fiercely, her eyes darting between them. "They'll take you into _prison_. ARGUS prison. That's not Iron Heights — it's not prison-break central!"

She looked furiously at Roy for reinforcement, but he was still. "Oliver's right," he said, in a voice of quiet comprehension. "Without Dig, who's going to lead us?"

"You will." Felicity held up her tablet. She offered it to Thea, to Roy — the ones they'd trained, to protect the city and everyone in it. "We have a plan to get out of ARGUS HQ. It's not a great one, but…"

Roy accepted the computer with a broken smile. "Our plans never are."

"Instructions on there, Scarecrow," she said, with a lightness Oliver knew she was straining to keep — just for a little longer. "We're counting on you."

The lights hummed, some of them shorting out near the back of the Foundry. They were getting closer. Felicity's breath was quick and short. "We're running out of time," she said, softly. "They have to go."

"I'll make sure the exit's clear," said Diggle, pulling out his gun as he went.

Felicity hugged Ray, who looked at Oliver over her head. "I don't need to tell you to take care of her, right?"

Oliver nodded. "You don't."

Ray held out his hand. "You know, heroes always come back at the end of the story. Now's not the time to be subversive to the cliché."

Felicity moved back to Oliver's side. "Goodbye, Ray," she said, and he went to join the others.

Oliver extended his hand to Roy, who gripped it tight without a word.

"You're ready for this," he said, the barest minimum of everything he owed Roy, as his mentor and his friend. "You're Roy Harper, and Arsenal, and you _will_ see this plan through."

"Until you guys come back," Roy answered, a stubborn promise of his own — something Oliver was proud to have taught him.

His sister, next. The hardest goodbye. "Ollie…" Thea rushed forward and buried her face in his chest because she was still a little sister about to lose her brother, again. "I can't let you do this," she whispered.

Oliver's heart twisted, briefly, in a moment of indecision. No part of him wanted to hurt his little sister — not again. But he kissed Thea's forehead, cupping the soft curls sticking up at the crown of her head, because it was the only thing he could do. "I love you, Speedy," he said, and stepped gently back.

There was a low rumble like thunder, coming from overhead as the ARGUS search drew closer still. It was under the blinking lights and the last, tenuous moments of safety that Oliver faced the others again, and saw their uncertainty, their confusion. Roy Harper, his first real responsibility as a mentor, someone he'd saved by being the Arrow. Barry Allen, the impossible, who'd once told him that he was an inspiration. Cisco and Caitlin, brilliant minds who'd proved time and time again that nothing was out of reach in the protection of their home. Ronnie and Ray — less familiar, less experienced, but driven to help in a common crusade. His sister, following in his footsteps to do what was right.

Not for the first time, he was struck by the weight of what he'd started — what the three of them had begun. Never in his wildest dreams could he have conceived — _hoped_ — that there would be people willing to follow them. Never did he imagine that anyone, let alone a group of heroes, would see the loss of them three — _the_ three — as unthinkable.

"All of you have followed us this far," he said, to all of them. "We just need you to follow us a little further."

Another explosion shook the ground. "Now or never," said Diggle, his hand on the last door.

Roy moved first, a hand gently on Thea's arm to steer her away. But Thea wiped her face and rushed to press her cheek to Oliver's in one final promise. "You're coming back," she said, in a tone that brooked no refusals.

Turning, she caught Felicity in a quick hug as well. "Get my mom out of town, okay?" Felicity said, urgently. "Please."

Thea nodded just before they slipped apart. Felicity whispered something to Caitlin, who embraced her just before she hurried up the steps with Ronnie. Oliver gripped Cisco's shoulder and exchanged a nod with Ray. Barry was the last, unwilling to go.

"You're not done yet," he said, firmly. "As Oliver Queen, _or_ the Arrow. You are so far from being done — promise me that you'll remember that."

"I will." Oliver shook him by the shoulder. "Now go — Barry — _run_ _!_ "

Barry nodded. Oliver's last glimpse of his friend was the instant before he took a step back…and vanished in a blast of wind and crackling static. Felicity's hair stirred in the fading breeze, and they all turned towards the main entrance, the metal shuddering with each blow it took.

"What do you think?" Diggle asked, releasing the safety on his handgun. "Go down fighting?"

Oliver's bow had been taken, along with most of the Foundry cache, but before he could answer in the affirmative, Diggle slid a spare gun across the table. "Thought so," he said, as Oliver picked it up with a faint smile.

Felicity gripped both their hands, tightly. "I never thought it would end like this," she said, her voice thick with tears. "I'm so sorry that I put you through this."

Diggle wrapped his arm around her and he gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. "This started with the three of us," he said, gruffly. "Seems right for it to end the same way."

Felicity laughed shakily and he let her go. When she came to him, Oliver lifted his hand to wipe a tear from her cheek. The drop of moisture lingered on his thumb when she turned her head to look at something, and Oliver realized that they were standing in the shadow of an empty case — the place where his suit used to be. The Foundry was a place he'd discovered, a hole in the ground before he'd turned it into a center of operations for saving the city, but the case was just one of the many things Felicity had done to nurture the place, to make it home. The suit, displayed at first with more pride on her part, had gradually become something he associated with his sense of home, his sense of self.

Even though his suit was gone, and a place he knew as home was about to crumble, Oliver wasn't afraid. Because home was standing right in front of him.

"I love you," he said, touching his forehead to hers.

Felicity tipped her head back and kissed him deeply. Warmth spread through Oliver's chest at her touch, a reminder of the fearlessness she alone could make him feel. "I love you too," she whispered, and their hands clasped, the rings on their hands a reminder of what they should have had the chance to do.

The thunder was nearly upon them. They disengaged, and Oliver moved to stand protectively in front of Felicity, just as Diggle was doing the same. Many things were coming full circle today — not just the beginning and the end of the Foundry, but the beginning of their history as a team, the three of them. When Felicity first joined their crusade, Diggle had warned him that they were putting her in danger, and Oliver had promised to protect her.

He always would.

"I love you both," she whispered, holding onto both their arms. "Whatever happens."

Oliver turned his head slightly and caught Diggle's eye. "Whatever happens," he said, just as the doors imploded in a hail of steel and rubble.

* * *

Felicity hit the ground with Oliver shielding her from the bulk of the debris. The blast was still ringing in her ears, a fact not helped at all by the Foundry being in mostly-darkness, because the lights had shorted out from the explosion.

She and Oliver really needed to have a discussion about the acceptable amount of C4 when booby-trapping a door.

The staircase was a mangled mess of warped steel, smoldering concrete rolling down what was left of the fixture, and for a moment, Felicity thought the agents might have been knocked unconscious by the blast.

That hope evaporated when a dozen pale searchlights sliced through the thick smoke — along with the sounds of a dogged advance by ARGUS agents with orders. Oliver was a vague shape above her, and she felt his finger press silently to her lips as he pulled her up, and they crept behind the shadow of an overturned worktable. Diggle was waiting for them, seemingly unhurt from the blast. All around their feet were the remnants of their home turned upside down. The suits had been taken with the team, but the mannequins left behind had toppled straight through their glass cases, lying in the midst of broken arrowheads and razor-edged fragments.

That wasn't a bad omen. Like, at all.

Diggle on her left, Oliver on her right. Felicity gripped their hands, a brief press of reassurance — a reminder that it was still the three of them. It used to be three against the underbelly of Starling City.

Times changed, and it was three against the world now.

A broken monitor crunched solidly beneath a combat boot.

"You know how this works, John," a familiar voice drawled. "You shoot me, I shoot back. The only difference is — I don't miss."

Felicity felt the muscles in Diggle's arm tense beneath her hand. There were some voices that just didn't need to come with a face, and this voice was one of them. Even without looking around their camouflage, Felicity could see the laser-red eyepiece in a smirking face, the ease with which Floyd Lawton carried his weapon of choice — a scary sniper rifle with the kind of aim that apparently never strayed.

ARGUS had sent the Suicide Squad after them.

"Fan out and search the place," he ordered. "Watch out, they got a meta in here somewhere."

"Hello, lover," Cupid called, and Felicity resisted the urge to misappropriate Oliver's gun and shoot her right then and there. "A little birdy tells me that you're really Oliver Queen. Now I _know_ that's something you would have told me —" A red arrow buried itself in the far wall, and she tittered "— right?"

A sanity check was apparently _not_ on the list of things ARGUS did to rehabilitate its dangerous convicts.

Felicity's eyes were adjusting rapidly to the darkness, and she saw that a few feet in front of her was an overturned tray of arrowheads. Oliver's hand was warningly tight around her forearm as she crept forward and snagged a handful, checking the grooves at the base with her thumb to make sure she had the right ones.

The pressure of Oliver's hand lightened, and Felicity saw the look that passed between him and Diggle. He held up three fingers.

_Three._

_Two._

_One._

Felicity pressed the button at the top of the oblong arrowhead and hurled it over the table ledge like a grenade.

Which it absolutely was.

It exploded, giving Oliver and Diggle their window. They darted up from behind the table and shot in unison, as formidable a pair armed with modern weapons as they were with their regular choice of swords. Bow and arrow, in someone's case.

Felicity sighted movement on their flank.

"John — on your left!" she yelled, and he twisted, taking down an agent trying to get around their cover.

Oliver had an open cut at the side of his head from a ricocheting bullet, Felicity felt a drop of blood land on her face when he twisted and fired at another agent. The empty magazine from his gun hit the ground with a hollow clatter, and Felicity was reminded — again — that it was only a decoy, what they were doing. They were drawing ARGUS's attention away from their friends, to give them the best chance they could to get away.

She saw another agent coming and rolled a jettisoning arrowhead towards his legs. It exploded into cables that zipped tight around his ankles and floored him. Point one for her. She'd just lobbed another exploding arrowhead over the table when something nicked her forearm with a sharp sting.

She hissed at the tingly numbness spreading from the site.

 _Sedative_.

Diggle hit the ground without warning, a dart in his neck. Beside her, Oliver pulled an identical dart from his shoulder, but she saw in his eyes that he was fading fast.

"Felicity —"

Oliver never finished the sentence, and she felt the weight of his head landing against her knee. The gun slipped from his slack hand, but before Felicity could grab it, someone kicked it out of the way.

The edges of her vision were fading to black by the time her dad came into view, standing over her with a disapproving look on his face. Just behind, Deadshot lowered his rifle with a smug smile.

"I told John — I don't miss," he said.

Felicity's arms slid out from under her and she landed clumsily on her elbow, but instead of feeling the sharp jolt in her injured shoulder, all she could sense was everything grinding to a slow halt inside her brain from the drugs.

Damien had the laptop in his hands when he crouched in front of her. "Where are they?" he asked, in a voice that struck her as deceptively quiet.

"Gone," Felicity said, even though it came out as more of a mumble. "Long — long gone."

Damien gripped the sides of her face and forced her to look at him, even as she unsuccessfully resisted the effects of the sedative.

"You were a profound disappointment, Felicity," he said.

The inside of her mouth felt like it was filled with cotton wool, but Felicity managed to get the words out anyway. Well, just one word, really.

" _Good_ ," she said, before her eyes closed of their own accord and she slipped into oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was majorly fun to write. Seriously though. That line from 3x18 when Oliver asks the team to follow him "a little further" ARGHHHHH the feels. Had to put a little reference in there.
> 
> ANYWAYS. Forgot to ask if everyone's still alive after 3x22. Are you?
> 
> Thoughts on 3x22: (MAJOR PROFANITY WARNING)
> 
> \- Better use of the Canary Cry, but it still vanished in Nanda Parbat, so...yeah. Not so much. Also, when Diggle had about six different guns pointed at him, did the Canary Cry just magically make the gang members lose their ability to pull triggers and engage in hand-to-hand combat instead?
> 
> \- MALCOLM KEEPS DOUBLE-CROSSING PEOPLE I DON'T KNOW ANYMORE. Seriously, though, if the writers want to redeem a character (bad idea, in Malcolm's case) maybe try not to do it in such a confusing way that I'm losing track of any good thing he does, because he flip-flops immediately after doing it. Inception totems, guys. That's the only way I'm keeping track of this crap.
> 
> \- Yeah, see, that 30 second convo between Ray and Felicity is EXACTLY how they should have been for the last season. Friends. Seriously, they're just so much better as friends than the honestly cringeworthy couple they were.
> 
> \- Um, as much as I want Felicity to be CEO of her own company, surely it's not good business practice to blindly sign documents without reading through them...? That's literally what lost Oliver his company with Isabel Rochev. Though in this case, Felicity becomes a billionaire and in all fairness, it just makes Oliver and Felicity more perfect for each other. They're so trusting. Urgh. How cute.
> 
> \- Diggle: I'm out. Hands down one of the best lines of the episode.
> 
> \- EW EW EW I did NOT want to know ANYTHING about Ra's al Ghul's sex life, thank you very much. EW EW EW WHY WOULD YOU, WRITERS. WHY.
> 
> \- WHAT THE FUCK YOU KILLED MASEO?! (By you, I mean the writers, not Tatsu) WHAT THE FUCK.
> 
> \- Ray has so many good lines in this episode, I'm starting to think the writers were saving their best stuff for the penultimate episode for...yeah, no reason. Some highlights: "Did you see that burning plane over there?" "You're getting married? I guess there's a kettle for every pot."
> 
> \- OH MY GOD the wedding reveal. From OLIVER. And he looks so ashamed. What. The. Fuck.
> 
> \- MY BROTP ARE FIGHTING. There's an "Oh Shit" song somewhere, right?
> 
> And finally:
> 
> \- Well, they went through with it. Arrow writers, g'bye, it was nice to know you, but I hate you and your plot choices.
> 
> To be fair though, despite all the "binding covenant" and soul crap the priestess lady was going on about, there literally is NOTHING legal about the marriage. Even if you went with the "meeting of two minds" idea behind marriage, neither Oliver nor Nyssa want to marry each other, so it's not even a figurative marriage. I'm pretty sure the consummation stuff is so far off the table it's in another galaxy. And they didn't even do a blood vow. Amateurs.
> 
> Barry's showing up in the finale though, so yays. He's so adorable.


	40. Consequences

Felicity woke inside an ARGUS van, her chin sore from bumping against her chest. It took a few seconds for her eyes to remember what they were for, and for the fuzziness in her ears to recede.

Oliver (conscious) was sitting across from her, and Diggle (still unconscious) was on her right, separated by a visored ARGUS agent (hopefully not one she'd injured with a jettisoning arrowhead). Damien was nowhere to be seen. Then again, she didn't suppose Supreme Evil rode in coach alongside the disgraced prisoners.

"You never said you had a _girlfriend_ , you bad boy," said Cupid, looking mortally affronted as she stared shamelessly at Oliver, who was stoic-faced and fresh out of sedation.

Felicity rolled her eyes. Great. So she hadn't missed much. " _Fiancée_ ," she corrected, and cricked her neck.

Being sedated always left a bad taste in her mouth, and this time was no exception.

"Are you all right?" Oliver asked, leaning forward despite the warnings from the ARGUS agents beside him.

It was an unintentionally ironic question given the crust of dried blood down the side of his face and the tear in his sleeve from the well-aimed tranquilizer dart (whatever, Deadshot).

"I should be asking you that question," Felicity answered, and would have checked his cuts herself — if she hadn't been restrained with handcuffs and prevented from budging too far off her seat by the ARGUS agents flanking her.

"So," said Deadshot, sitting at the head of the compartment. He was chewing gum with an unpleasant smacking sound. "Oliver Queen is the Arrow. Funny, wouldn't have pegged the billionaire moron to be the —" He made sarcastic air quotes "— _Save the City_ type. What — did it get too expensive to pay your thugs? Or do you just like getting your hands dirty?"

Oliver gave Deadshot his usual expressionless response.

Deadshot drummed his fingers on his rifle, the smug grin still on his face as he shifted his appraisal from Oliver to her. "And where have they been hiding you, sweetheart?" he said, in a voice that sent her Creepy Alert beeping like hell.

But creepy made her go full-on snarky, even more than usual. "Funny," she said. "Because the last time I saw you, we'd just broken you out of a Russian gulag — at _huge_ personal risk, by the way — and Dig over there didn't shoot you, even though he had a very non-metaphorical gun to your head." She rattled her handcuffs pointedly. "Way to pay us back, _Deadshot_."

"Hey, I got my orders," he said, raising his hands in a don't-shoot-the-messenger-type way. "Can't disobey — even for a cute blonde like you."

It took three ARGUS agents to keep Oliver in his seat.

"Oo, he's a jealous one," said Cupid, propping her chin on her elbow to watch Oliver. " _That_ , I like even more."

Felicity's handcuffs protested against the strangling motions she was making with her hands. " _Listen_ , you insane —"

"Keep your claws in, Cutter," Deadshot drawled, his boots thudding on the van floor when he stretched his legs out in front of him, hands behind his head. "Boss's orders."

Felicity heard someone stir. "You have _got_ to be kidding me," Diggle groaned, shaking his head like there was water in his ears.

"John — how's your head?" Felicity asked, sitting as far forward as they let her. "Are you hurt?"

Diggle grunted. "No," he said, checking himself quickly. "No, I wasn't hit."

Deadshot whistled. "Not so fast, John." He tapped the side of his head. "Bullseye for me."

"Where's my wife, you son of a bitch?" Diggle growled, straining against the ARGUS agents keeping him in his seat. "What did you do to her?"

Deadshot shrugged. "That information's above my pay grade. But if you're looking for something to be angry at — Cutter," he said, pointing at the blank screen above his head. "Show them the news. They're gonna love the evening blitz."

"Already on it, baby," said Cupid, pushing a button that made the screen blink to life with Channel 52.

"SCPD has confirmed that the nightclub _Verdant_ , owned by Thea Queen, was being used as a hideout by the Starling City vigilante and his partners," said the reporter.

"Oh frack," Felicity muttered, because it was a shot of a decimated Verdant, along with some very not-good photos of the blasted-apart door to the Foundry, crisscrossed with yellow police tape. Damien must have gift-wrapped the Foundry for the SCPD just like they'd gift-wrapped ORACLE for him.

"Shh-shh." Cupid put a finger to her lips. "This is the best part."

"We're now getting an official report from Police Commissioner Franklin that three suspects were apprehended at the scene. It is unclear where they are being taken — whether by a federal agency or by the local police — but eyewitness reports confirm that the vigilante's identity is none other than billionaire CEO Oliver Queen —"

"— oh frack —"

"—of Queen Incorporated, and his partners —"

"—so much more frack—"

"— have been tentatively identified as John Diggle and Felicity Smoak. John Diggle is Chief of Security at Queen Incorporated, and was Mr. Queen's personal bodyguard for the last four years. Before that, he served in the United States military on three consecutive tours of Afghanistan. Felicity Smoak is the Vice-President of Palmer Technologies, and was recently revealed to have been in a romantic relationship with Mr. Queen for an unknown period of time. Police have long been speculating that the Arrow was being aided by an experienced hacker, and Ms. Smoak, who holds a master's degree in Cyber Security and Computer Sciences from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, appears to fit that description. The District Attorney's office has yet to release an official statement confirming the accusations. It is unclear whether Mr. Queen will be prosecuted for first-degree murder, or if he and his partners are to face any charges at all. We bring you now to our on-site correspondent —"

"—it gets a little dull from there," said Deadshot. "Channel 52 ain't got much to go on. ARGUS only gave the SCPD what they needed to know, and let the story spin out of control from there."

"Well, at least they got the hacker part right," Felicity muttered, leaning forward to reach Oliver.

"Hey," she said, and her fingertips trailed across his palm — a brief, electric touch — before the agents pulled them apart again. "Are you okay?"

Oliver lifted his head. "We were expecting this," he said, calmly. "I'm only sorry that you and John were implicated along with me."

"It was only a matter of time before Darhk outed all of us, man," said Diggle. "That's a risk we took when we signed on to help you."

Oliver exhaled, deeply. "I'm sorry that your mom had to find out like this," he said, softly.

"My mom?" Felicity had to find the dark humor in the situation, in spite of herself. "My mom doesn't watch the news — she says it depresses her. If anything, I'm the one coming out of this unscathed. My mom doesn't know her hacker daughter's been outed on live television, _and_ they don't put blondes in Guantanamo Bay." She smiled when Oliver did. "I'll be fine."

"I don't mean to interrupt this _Kumbaya_ fest," Deadshot said, sliding the van doors open before they'd even come to a stop, "but it's time to face the music."

Cupid managed to stroke Oliver's shoulder before he twisted out of the way. "I'll be waiting for you, cutie," she said, and blew him a kiss.

"I don't know about you," Felicity commented, watching Cupid hop out of the van, "but I think I'd throw myself under a moving truck over _that_."

Diggle raised his eyebrow. "You would have thought some time in the Suicide Squad would have mellowed out her obsession with the Arrow."

"She's the least of our worries right now," Oliver said, as they were handled roughly out of the van.

Felicity stared up at ARGUS HQ, trying not to shiver from the chill. "Straight into the belly of the beast," she murmured.

* * *

Different building, but pretty much the same people. After the bunker was pretty much decimated, ARGUS had built up instead of down, inhabiting a glass-and-steel multistory with a surprising amount of visual transparency, for an organization that dealt near-exclusively with secrets. Felicity experienced déjà vu left, right and center, walking through an ARGUS lobby handcuffed with Diggle and Oliver. This time, though, there was definitely a lot more staring. Maybe it was the Suicide Squad. Maybe it was the freshly-outed Team Arrow. Maybe it was Damien Darhk, serenely waiting for them at the doors.

Felicity hadn't realized how angry she was until she saw her father. When she took a step, she felt Oliver reach for her, maybe his fingers just — _just_ — snagged on the back of her jacket. But she rushed forward — not caring that she was handcuffed or that there was a lobby of ARGUS agents watching — and struck her dad across the face.

To be fair, her clasped hands caught him under the chin, and probably hurt her more than it did him, but it was the gesture. A faint gasp went up from the spectating crowd, along with the warning click of guns probably directed at her back.

Damien raised his hand to stay them, using the other to rub the spot on his chin like it was only a minor annoyance. Felicity was breathing hard, staring at her father like she was trying to understand how — how she could have expected better from him, after what he'd done to Sara, to Sandra, to his own daughter.

"You had to do it, didn't you?" she said. "You had to tell the police about Oliver — about Diggle — about _us_."

"I warned you, Felicity." Damien looked almost… _proud_. "I warned you that your friends would be held accountable for their crimes, a warning you refused to heed."

"The only criminal I see here — right now — is _you_. You're a liar, and I don't know how you managed to double-cross your way back into ARGUS, but I am going to make sure that you're the one who ends up in a cell. You and your BFF Malcolm Merlyn."

Damien made a faint noise, as if to correct a mistake she'd made. "You misunderstand the consequences of my actions. Now that your friends' identities have been exposed, it leaves them with only one option — ARGUS. It will be their safe haven from the persecution of the outside world, and you will be grateful for it."

Felicity raised her hands again, but Damien caught her arm and twisted her around, his fingers digging painfully into her injured shoulder — which he most certainly remembered.

There was a scuffle from the general direction of her friends, as if Oliver and Diggle had attempted to reach her. While she wanted nothing more than to see them beat the living crap out of her dad, Felicity knew that one of the things immunizing her from sudden death by shooting was her status as Damien's daughter. No such rule applied to her friend and fiancé.

" _Don't_ ," Felicity said to them, glaring at Damien as she did. "I'm…fine."

Damien's expression told her that he knew she was lying. "Now, Felicity," he said, pleasantly. "Do behave. This is still my place of work, after all."

In response, Felicity called him something very rude through her teeth, and Damien marched them on. On the excessively little bright side, the pain in her shoulder distracted her from one of the most awkward elevator rides in the history of time (Suicide Squad and Team Arrow, ha). Good, because Felicity had nothing to say to her dad. Nothing outside of profanities, anyway. He seemed to know exactly where he was going, navigating the twisting corridors like he was the one who'd built the maze.

They'd just rounded a corner when Felicity stirred, seeing something she didn't understand through a wall of glass. She looked over her shoulder at Diggle, and saw his expression — just as confused as she was.

Damien scanned his handprint and the doors whooshed open to a conference room. Lyla was standing at the head of the table, interrupted mid-conversation with some senior-looking military and government people — a strategy session, probably.

The doors closed behind them and the glass walls instantly turned milky opaque. So the new ARGUS wasn't _that_ transparent, after all. Damien unconcernedly thrust Felicity back, and she stumbled straight into Oliver, whose hands found hers in silent reassurance before the ARGUS agents forced them apart again.

"I apologize for my lateness," Damien said, coolly. "But I wasn't aware that the council was scheduled to meet today."

"Agent Darhk." Lyla's demeanor was as icy as his own. "What's the meaning of this?"

Damien turned, as if the Suicide Squad detaining the three of them was nothing to be surprised about. "I should ask you the same question, Director Michaels," he said, and addressed the council. "I called in Task Force X to liberate me from captivity. The three you see here are highly dangerous operatives, following Director Michael's orders to hold me hostage in a coup, meant to solidify her authority within ARGUS. As such, I request her immediate arrest and termination as Head of ARGUS."

There was no response from the council. Lyla folded her arms.

"Ah," Damien breathed. "So I _have_ come too late."

"I acted the _second_ you deployed Task Force X on a rogue op. ARGUS doesn't tolerate protocol violations, Agent Darhk, and you've violated plenty."

She waved her hand across the table and the screens behind her activated, showing some log files and what looked like bank transaction details. "Evidence of unauthorized Task Force X deploys, bank transfers to hidden bank accounts, unexplained visitations to areas you may have clearance for, but have _no_ business being in." Lyla waved her hand again, and the screen shifted to pictures now, of gruesome photos that left a bitter taste at the back of Felicity's mouth. "Above everything else, evidence of illegal experimentation in something called _Project Lazarus_. Deceased subjects and mad science. Amanda Waller may have given you the authorization, but when I became Director, I expected to be informed."

Damien turned his head slightly to look at Felicity, who stared baldly back. ARGUS satellites were easy to hack, information easy to package and send off to friends in high places. "Well done," he said, with nod. "You've made quite the case against me, Director Michaels."

"The council has reached a decision. Your involvement with the Sentinel Initiative has been terminated, the project put on standby pending new evaluation and fresh leadership, and you will be detained until a tribunal convenes to decide on your status." Lyla gestured at the Suicide Squad. "Take him down to the detention block."

"Looks like you have all the luck, John," said Deadshot, unsticking the butt of his gun from Diggle's back and training it on Damien instead.

Her father carefully set the laptop on the table and raised his hands. Instantly, Felicity was reminded of the time he'd casually surrendered to them in a warehouse, how it had turned out to be everything he'd wanted.

"Lyla…" she said, in warning.

"Tell me, Darhk," said Lyla. "Who are you _really_ working for? Because it's sure as hell not ARGUS."

Damien didn't seem too fazed by the guns pointed at him. "I'm afraid you're going to regret having asked that," he said. "Drone activation: _delta_."

Felicity's nerves hummed at his words, but nothing happened, at first. Until it did. The safety on Deadshot's gun clicked, and Felicity saw only the curiously blank expression on his face — on Cupid's as well — before they turned on the ARGUS agents who'd stormed the Foundry with them, and opened fire.

A rapid burst of semi-automatic gunfire took out most of the agents before they could even draw, Cupid's arrows doing the rest. Oliver had moved instinctively to shield her, and Felicity clutched at his arm, the both of them looking over their shoulders at the bloodied corpses, lying in what was left of the decimated glass walls.

"What the hell, Lawton?" said Diggle, as Deadshot turned slowly to face the council, and Lyla, semi-automatic in hand. He gave no response, his face as blank as a slate.

"Nano-implants were one of the many things my clearance level allowed me to take an active interest in, particularly that of the Suicide Squad," said Damien. "Now, while I _am_ grateful for the council's assistance in aiding the Sentinel Initiative, I'm afraid you've exhausted your purpose." He flicked his hand. "Terminate."

"Dad!" Felicity yelled, but the sound was lost over the gunfire, smoothly taking out the unarmed men and women sitting at the table.

When the smoke cleared, one of them was lying on the table with an arrow in his convulsing throat. Lyla was pointing her gun at Damien's head, unscathed because of his specific orders. Her chest rose and fell with rapid breath, her eyes laser-sharp and focused.

Damien tsked, and Deadshot turned his gun onto Diggle's back again. "Outgunned, I'm afraid. Drop your weapon."

"Don't do it, Lyla," Diggle said, firmly. "Shoot Darhk and end this."

"Then your husband ends with me," Damien said. "I'm afraid you have only one option."

Lyla's jaw clenched, and she carefully set the gun on the table. "I'm sorry, Johnny. I can't do it."

"I thought not," said Damien, and he moved swiftly to the computers. Felicity saw what he was doing on the screens, surveillance footage of the detention cells in ARGUS HQ. His fingertips drummed out a rapid-fire sequence on the glass, responding to a scrolling log of code.

"One of the many things Amanda and I agreed on was the fact that ARGUS's weakness lies in its lack of conviction. You take half-measures, but hesitate to go all the way. Your treatment of detainees and special prisoners, for example. Implants to track their vitals and location, but nothing else. Skills appropriate for weaponization, but you don't take advantage of them. Fortunately, I did."

"The implants…" said Lyla. "But they're hundreds of prisoners, you can't possibly have —"

"Oh, you underestimate me, Director Michaels. Not when you said I don't work for ARGUS, because you're quite right — I don't, and I never have. What you underestimate is my purpose. ARGUS has served as a hub, for me to quietly extend my influence and amass resources for a higher, more organized collective. One with a more developed world vision than ARGUS's moderate approach."

" _Moderate_ ," Felicity said, sarcastically. "That's exactly the word I associate with ARGUS. Moderate."

"You have seen so little of the world, Felicity."

"So what are you going to do?" she said, as if there wasn't an arrowhead trained on her back from a brainwashed psychotic stalker. "You've already outed us, and you have ORACLE. Was this all so you could take control of ARGUS? Because you wanted Amanda's job?"

Damien smirked and opened a building-wide broadcast with a few swift taps. "Drone activation: delta," he repeated.

They watched the cells beneath ARGUS HQ spring open at his command. Prisoners with faces as blank as Deadshot, and Cupid, and their resurrected Sara clashed with surprised ARGUS agents. Ordinary prison riots would have been subdued easily, but this wasn't ordinary prison — not when the detainees were Deadshots and Carrie Cutters. Insane, and/or armed with a highly particular set of killing skills. Meanwhile, the exits and rooms all over ARGUS HQ had been locked down without warning, trapping ARGUS agents — numbers who could slant the odds — out of the fight.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" said Damien, surveying his work. "Every hive needs drones and worker bees. They're serving their purpose without a need for conscious thought, and soon, what remains of ARGUS will be claimed and re-assimilated to serve a higher purpose."

"You…" Lyla stared at her husband, who'd lost his brother to the name Damien casually let slip.

"You work for them," said Diggle, with barely-contained rage. "You're not ARGUS — you're…"

" _HIVE_ ," said Oliver, and even though Felicity knew almost zero about HIVE, his voice told her everything she needed to know.

It was _bad_.

"Exactly, Mr. Queen," said Damien. "I _am_ HIVE, and as empires rise and fall — ARGUS is the one that falls today."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. So. You guys called it like 10 chapters ago. Congratulations, and good day.
> 
> For someone who's supposed to be taking an exam in about 2 hours, I'm blowing up a lot of things in this story. The Foundry...Oliver as the Arrow...ARGUS HQ...seriously. Exam-me is so destructive :D


	41. Story's Not Over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooo. First update post-season 3, and guess who's freaking done with FINALS?! *points at self* Full speed on the writing train, no sign of slowing down (yet). Cheers :D

"Well," said Felicity. "This isn't familiar… _at all_."

She slapped the cell door for good measure, feeling both the sting radiate up her arm and the hollow thud of solid steel too thick to crack. There was a narrow window with metal grating over it, which was absolutely no help at all, since the cells were decidedly passcode-locked.

"You'll break your arm, Felicity." Lyla was sitting on the narrow cot and staring at the floor. "These were built to keep Task Force X in check."

Diggle's voice echoed from the next cell, the one he currently shared with Oliver. "Which they won't be needing, since the Suicide Squad are running around with computer chips at the back of their skulls."

"Nano-implant," Felicity corrected, on impulse. "Calling it a computer chip is like calling Ben & Jerry's… _sugar milk_ , or something. It's just insulting."

"God forbid I insult Ben & Jerry's while we're in HIVE lockdown," Diggle muttered. "How did this happen? How did HIVE —" He broke off with a sound of frustration.

"They're good at keeping out of the light," said Oliver, in a quiet voice Felicity knew was only a deceptive control for his emotions. "If you thought ARGUS operated in the shadows, it's only because HIVE created the darkness."

"Which Amanda set free the _second_ she and Darhk put their heads together for the Sentinel Initiative — Project Lazarus — and God knows what else," said Lyla.

"So the both of you knew about HIVE?" Felicity said, torn between glaring at Lyla, and the wall in the hope that Oliver could sense it. "And you didn't tell us?"

"There are a lot of things I don't tell Johnny, and I'm sure there are many things Oliver doesn't tell you about his time away from Starling," Lyla answered, her tone even. "Johnny wanted to know anything pertinent to Andy's death. There wasn't — and if there _had_ been, I would have told him in a heartbeat."

Felicity glared hard at the wall.

"Well," said Diggle. "We're in ARGUS prison. Maybe now's the time we learn a few things about HIVE, starting with the basics. How many?"

"Nobody knows," Lyla said, with the air of someone prefacing an urban legend with a disclaimer. "Intelligence on HIVE was always sparse — ARGUS devotes their time to tangible threats, not chasing down legends and whispers in the walls."

"Three guesses who encouraged that approach," Felicity muttered. It wasn't in her nature to be angry at genius tactics, but reminding herself that they were being used by a genocidally evil organization helped. A little. "If my dad's been working in ARGUS for almost twenty years, HIVE must have been — _hibernating_ inside ARGUS — for at least that long. Who _does_ that?"

"You really don't want an answer to that question, Felicity." Lyla rested her head on her clasped hands. "Because that's the kind of question that topples regimes and overthrows governments."

"Well it deposed ARGUS today," said Diggle. "So maybe you should have answered that question sooner."

Lyla glared at the wall behind her, with the same look Felicity saw on Oliver's face whenever they were disagreeing on certain world views. Which made her Diggle in this situation.

Yay. So they'd each have a matched set inside their cells. One realist, one dreamer (or just a regular scared person, that worked too).

"There was a rumor," Lyla said, continuing her story. "That HIVE _was_ ARGUS — ARGUS as it was supposed to be. A collective. Devised by the government to do what was necessary for the greater good, always behind the scenes, but very much in the picture. But eventually, _the greater good_ superseded concepts of collateral damage and certain ethical considerations, so there was a break in leadership. Different views, different paths. ARGUS emerged from HIVE, and while ARGUS thrived, HIVE retreated into myth. That was what I was told in the Academy when I was training to become part of ARGUS, that was what we were all told — HIVE didn't exist."

"So I'm guessing my dad wasn't kidding when he said ARGUS was HIVE's soft-spoken cousin," said Felicity.

"Nano-implants, Project Lazarus, and the Sentinel Initiative…they just scratch the surface of what HIVE's capable of. If they hired Deadshot to take out Andy, there's no telling how many others they've terminated — for reasons we might never find out." The subtext behind Lyla's optimistic statement was: _because they might drag us out for execution any minute_.

"They wouldn't," Felicity said, in firm denial. "My dad wouldn't. He's too busy locking ARGUS down, and securing ORACLE. Let's just hope he gets around to unlocking it before…"

 _Before Roy bites Barry's head off. Or Ray's. Probably Ray's._ Which sucked, because they needed all of them for the plan to work.

The cells were probably bugged, so Felicity didn't finish her sentence, and stared out into the corridor instead.

"It's quiet," she said. "Where are all the ARGUS agents? They all can't have been HIVE, right?"

The cot creaked when Lyla shifted her position. "ARGUS has a _lot_ of detention options. Darhk's probably quarantined us. Better for ARGUS to think the council and their Director all died in one go. Less _hope_ interfering with his big persuasive speech — the one where he tries to get ARGUS agents on the fence to join him."

Felicity wondered what it was like to be so good at reading people's moves. It sounded exhausting. "I'm guessing it's not a speech that ends in a request?"

Lyla shook her head, folding her hands protectively over her stomach. Three months pregnant, and locked in a prison cell under the threat of death — it sent a pang of guilt straight into Felicity's gut. "No," she said. "No, it's not."

Felicity thoughtfully turned the Smartwatch (now nanite-free, but still active) around her wrist before climbing onto the cot with Lyla. She put her arms around Diggle's wife and held her, and Lyla let herself be held.

"We have time," she said, seizing the thought of her friends as her lifeboat in the crisis, even though said lifeboat was dependent on them carrying out the plan that depended heavily on timing and a whole lot of dumb luck.

But they were Team Arrow. They'd been through worse with _no_ plan. They'd survive this.

Lyla's head fit comfortably beneath Felicity's chin. "It's chilly down here," she said, chafing Lyla's shoulder. "How's the baby?"

"Cooking." Lyla's breath tickled Felicity's neck when she answered, and they both laughed quietly, sitting in a chilly prison cell with faded photos tacked up on the far wall. "I was three months pregnant with Sara when Slade's men tried to destroy the city. My body knows how to have a baby in a war zone. It's Johnny I'm worried about. He's not as tough as I am."

Felicity lifted her head. "John?" she called. "How's the cold treating you?"

Metal springs creaked on the other side of the wall, as if Diggle had leaned forward to answer her. "Don't worry, Felicity," he said. "I won't let Oliver freeze to death."

Lyla chuckled.

"You know, that'd be funny," Felicity said. "If it didn't tragically coincide with us being in prison."

Lyla was as soft to hug as Donna, and Felicity knew she was the kind of mom that gave _great_ hugs. She had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at the mental image of Oliver and Diggle doing the same thing.

"You can laugh," Lyla murmured. "I won't tell Johnny. It'll be our secret."

"Which one? You already let me feed Sara her first cookie and her first scoop of mint choc-chip ice cream. Good times."

Lyla nodded. "They were," she said, and plucked at Felicity's sleeve. "I'm sorry about your wedding. I know you and Oliver were supposed to —"

"— don't." Felicity shook her head. "Lyla, it's not important. Not right now."

"Yes it is." Lyla took Felicity's hand firmly in hers. "When every day the world wants you to fight a war, nothing is more important than the person you choose to stand at your back."

"What if said people _really_ want to get hitched, but every time they almost get around to doing it, some…crazy twist gets thrown their way?" Felicity asked, without really expecting an answer. "What then?"

"Then the story's not over." Lyla's wedding ring gleamed gold against the pale gray of the ring Oliver had made for Felicity. "You'll get your day — the both of you. Story's not over just yet."

* * *

Oliver felt the wall behind his back as he stretched his legs out in front of him with a weary sigh.

"I thought no prison could hold a League assassin," Diggle commented, lying flat on the cot with his hands neatly folded across his chest.

"Ra's might have skipped that lesson with me," Oliver muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose to hold back the stabbing headache that surely had to be coming. "Flight risk and all."

Diggle chuckled. "Yeah, I figured — since we managed to drug and haul you all the way back to Starling in chains."

Oliver sighed, and let his head knock lightly against the wall. "Good times," he said, but as soon as he started to smile, he remembered the decimated Foundry — how they could never go back — and the smile faded.

"We can rebuild, Oliver." As always, Diggle knew him…sometimes better than he knew himself. "It's not over. You've been arrested for being the Arrow before, you'll hire lawyers — Laurel, Felicity — they'll help you fight this."

Oliver didn't answer, not immediately, because he was thinking. Maybe a part of him had always known — the contingency. What would happen if he ever got arrested a second time.

"John," he said, staring at the ground. "I want you to promise me something."

Diggle breathed out, loudly. "Why do I get the feeling it's going to be stupidly self-sacrificing?"

Oliver smiled without humor. "Because it is," he said, simply. "I want you to promise me that you'll tell the truth — that I _am_ the Arrow. You and Felicity were down in the basement because I asked you to come, because I was about to ask the both of you to aid and abet my activities as the vigilante…whatever — _whatever_ — it takes for you to convince a jury that you had nothing to do with me."

The cot springs groaned when Diggle sat up, glaring at Oliver like he'd never seen him before. "That's not the truth, Oliver, and you know it."

"It is," Oliver answered. "Or it will be, when you tell it."

"And what makes you think Felicity — your Felicity — is going to lie on the stand when it's a question of you spending the rest of your life in prison?"

"She'll lie because I need her to take care of Thea, and continue the work that's been helping the city. Just like you need to be there for Lyla and Sara. We can't all go to prison, and I've survived worse than Iron Heights. It was my plan — my crusade — my choice." Oliver straightened up. "Now let me take responsibility for it."

"Funny, Oliver, because I seem to recall the Foundry needing expansion from all the _alone time_ you were spending down there." Diggle looked both exasperated and bone-achingly tired. "And you gravely underestimate the friends you've made and the women in your life if you think that they're going to let SCPD haul you off to prison — _without_ having something to say about it."

"John…"

"No," he said, flatly. "You're not going down for a choice all of us made. There's another way, and we will cross that bridge when we come to it. Assuming Darhk doesn't have us dragged out and shot in front of his own daughter."

"There's always that," Oliver agreed.

Diggle made a disbelieving noise under his breath. "I always knew people said dumb things on their wedding day, but you continue to test the boundaries of what's possible."

Oliver looked down in surprise. After everything that had happened — the Suicide Squad, ARGUS, HIVE — he'd nearly forgotten about the ring on his hand and what it symbolized. Seeing it now, he remembered their appointment at City Hall, the one they'd probably missed.

"Still thinking about going to prison?" Diggle asked pointedly, while Oliver twisted the ring around his finger.

"Today was supposed to be different," he said to himself. "I was supposed to be Oliver Queen…and marry her."

 _Finally_.

Oliver tipped his head back to the ceiling and closed his eyes. The stark light softened against his eyelids, still bright, but almost dreamlike, like he'd fallen asleep in the sun and was drifting…drifting.

To a vividly remembered dream, one he'd gone over so many times in his head that he sometimes mistook it for something that had actually happened, that — against all odds — it had become reality.

When he'd first awoken after the Lazarus Pit, the experience had left him with more questions than answers, a gap in the narrative as to how he could have possibly survived. His mother, his father, all the friends he'd lost…they were just reminders of the people he would have seen again — if he'd just given up.

But when Felicity — _Felicity_ came back to him, it had all made sense again. Why he'd fought his way back to the world of the living, why the pit had chosen to take her from him after he did.

Etched deep into his soul was the vision of her walking through the sunbeams in the archway of a church, the shy tilt of her head as she watched her feet, like she was scared she'd trip over the hem of her dress, and the way he'd felt when she smiled at him.

Anchored, in his short life of tumultuous shifts and uncertainty of life and death.

Home, after everyone and everything.

Oliver heaved a slow sigh, because it was still just a dream. "Everything went wrong…again."

Diggle scratched his head, as if he was trying to work out how to phrase something. "Hell, Oliver, I was gonna wait until you and Felicity actually made it down the aisle before I asked, but since we're both in a cell and there might not be another chance…"

"What?" Oliver said, turning to look at his friend in concern.

"Sara still doesn't have her godparents."

There was a pause as the words sank in.

"Oh," Oliver said, awkwardly. "I assumed that you and Lyla asked someone else, I didn't think —"

"Why? Because we actually have friends outside you guys?" Diggle sounded amused. "We've actually had our eye on the both of you for a while now, we just thought it might be a better idea to wait until you were official — which in hindsight, was stupid, because the two of you have been official for longer than either of you really knew."

"Godparents?" Oliver repeated, sounding incredulous because he was.

"Sara's already halfway to talking about Ethernet ports from all the time Felicity spends babysitting her, and you…" Diggle lifted his shoulders. "You're my brother. If anything should happen to me and Lyla — I can't think of any two people I'd rather have protecting my daughter, watching her grow up, teaching her the things I'd want her to learn."

"I don't know," Oliver said, looking at his hands. "Someone once told me I tend to make stupid decisions. Are you sure you want Sara picking that up from me?"

Diggle laughed with him, and it took them a minute to regain their composure. "Two things," he said, holding up his fingers. "Two things Lyla and I want for Sara. To be loved, and to be kind. You and Felicity are the kindest people we know, the two people who know and value what it means to be loved. I know it's a lot to ask, but —"

"It's not," Oliver said, immediately. "John, if anything happens to you and Lyla, Sara will not grow up alone. She will be loved, by me, by Felicity, by all your friends…" He shook his head, making a promise now. "She won't be alone."

"You can't be Sara's godparent from prison, you know," Diggle said, watching Oliver carefully. "Does that mean you're open to another way?"

Oliver thought for a moment. "There's always another way," he said, and Diggle smiled.

"Good." The cot creaked when Diggle lay down flat, his hands resting on his stomach. "If you get cold, rub your arms before you try to wake me up. I'm not much of a morning person."

Diggle was always funny, in his own morbidly humorous way. "I'll keep that in mind," Oliver said, leaning his head against the wall.

Oliver listened for a long time, until his friend's breaths drew apart and soft in the steady rhythm of sleep, turning the ring around and around his finger with a small smile on his face.

* * *

Without windows or a credible source of daylight, Felicity didn't know how long she'd been asleep for — or what time it was when her eyes flickered open without warning. She didn't dare look too conspicuously at her watch in case there were cameras, because secret weapons were only secret if they didn't look like it.

Lyla was lying on her side, asleep on the cot with her legs resting on Felicity's lap. Gently (because her legs were falling asleep), Felicity slid out from under Lyla's limbs and walked quietly over to the far wall.

The cell — belonging to one of the Suicide Squad — had a wall devoted entirely to photos of the same little girl with shiny red hair, as red as a copper penny. Petite and freckled, with a little gap between her front teeth. Felicity wondered whose daughter she was, or little sister, or long-forgotten memory.

She'd probably never find out.

Felicity pressed her lips to the ring on her finger, and felt the metal warm gradually to her breath. Sacrificing their wedding day to save their friends and (hopefully) stop her evil dad…it was the kind of sacrifice that was very _them_ , her and Oliver. Always something getting in the way, something more important.

Her hands slid low to her belly, because she was thinking about Lyla and John, their baby, their marriage, their family. They were sacrificing something precious too — entrusting little Sara to their friends, without knowing if they'd see her again. Just…hoping.

Felicity's hands were flat on her (rather unremarkable) though this was supposed to be a quiet moment for thinking about her and Oliver's prospective children, all Felicity could think about was the child Oliver already had. Somewhere in her list of instructions to Barry, along with getting Donna out of town, included a protection request for Connor. If Sandra was as brainwashed as Sara, there was no telling what she'd do to her own child if Damien ran out of cards to play. At least Detective West could take him into protective custody, hide him until they got Sandra back to normal.

No children yet for her and Oliver, because Felicity was too busy thinking about the children that already existed, in all their school-rule-breaking, tree-climbing glory.

Felicity wondered if there was a way to tell her (nonexistent) children that their grandfather had been a piece of work. A psychopathic work of art that belonged in the museum of notorious crazy people.

Probably not. But she and Oliver would cross that bridge when they got to it.

Felicity was careful not to wake Lyla when she walked up to the cell door and leaned her forehead against the steel. The corridor was silent except for the nearly imperceptible hum of electricity in the fluorescents, and the air currents traveling from one sealed end of the corridor to the other.

"Oliver," she whispered, partly to see if he was there. "Are you up?"

Nothing. They had to be passed out from exhaustion. She nodded to herself, and was about to step away when she heard it.

"Felicity?"

The bubble of tension inside her chest deflated instantly, and she pressed her forehead to the door. "Hi," she said, smiling even though he couldn't see her. "Did I wake you?"

"You know the answer to that." Even though he was completely out of sight, she could sense his little smile. "Are you okay?"

Felicity rubbed a raised patch of swelling on her hand from where she'd struck Damien. "Need to work on my punches. That right there was a pretty epic fail."

"I didn't think so."

"I'm sleeping with you — your opinion doesn't count," Felicity answered, reflexively. " _Argh_ , even in a prison cell I can't keep my mouth shut."

Oliver took a moment to catch his breath from a laugh he hadn't been expecting. "I love you all the more for it," he said.

Felicity shifted, leaning her back against the wall, like they weren't separated by a foot of concrete and some steel, like they were sitting side by side — even it was in a cold prison cell, holding each other.

"Even if I'm still technically Felicity-maiden-name-Smoak?" she asked, in a low voice.

"We'll get our chance," Oliver said, and she wondered if he was looking at his ring just like she was looking at hers. "I'm going to marry you, Felicity. I do know that."

Felicity laughed, even though it came out more like a sigh. "We're always proposing to each other," she said, the back of her head gently touching the wall. "Four times total. You'd think we'd be _married_ by now."

"Someone once helped me realize that what you and I have…isn't always simple," said Oliver, and Felicity rested her chin on her shoulder, listening to his words like they were the caresses she so badly needed from him.

"What you and I have…it's complicated," he continued, thoughtfully. "But the things that matter rarely are, and you matter to me, Felicity. More than you know, more than I could ever show you. When I was dying in the bunker, and you were holding me, telling me that you _knew_ , all I could think of was how you didn't, how I could never find the words to tell you." Oliver inhaled, deeply. "I've never told you this, but when I was in the Pit, I saw you."

Felicity grew quiet at the memory of the black pit inside Nanda Parbat, the one disturbed by ghost winds and colored only by the hellish red of a coal fire. "I know, Oliver. You saw me die."

"No." She could sense him shaking his head. "Not my fears. When I died, and I was in the Lazarus Pit, I dreamed. I saw my family, my friends…and you."

"Oliver," she said, gently. "You were _dead_. Not like dead-asleep dead, but _medically_ dead. You couldn't have been dreaming."

"You told me that the Pit finds the tether, the one that holds you to life. I think I saw everyone because the Pit was looking for whatever it was — whoever it was — that tied me to being alive."

Felicity slid slowly down the wall, until she was sitting with her arms around her knees and her heartbeat thudding against her legs. "And you saw me?" she asked, almost shyly.

"I did. We were in a church, with all our friends and family, and I was standing at the front, alone. I had no idea what I was waiting for, or why the dream seemed so… _different_. It was so clear, so _real_ , like it was the only dream that mattered. I didn't know why, until you walked in." Oliver took a breath, as if he was turning a cherished memory over and over in his mind.

Felicity silently covered her mouth with one hand, because she didn't want to make a sound, not when Oliver was telling her this story…this beautiful truth.

"You were in a white dress," he continued softly, "and you looked so nervous, just staring at your feet like you were scared of falling…but then you looked up, and you smiled at me. Then — right then — I knew for sure that there was nowhere else I wanted to be, nobody else I was waiting to see. Because it was you. It was always you. Felicity, you…you were the dream."

Felicity blinked to clear the sudden fuzziness of her vision. "Oliver…"

"That's why I'm sure," he said, finally. "We're going to get married, and we'll have a life together, because the dream — the _idea_ — of a future with you…was what brought me back from the dead. I love you, Felicity, more than anything else in the world, and I'm going to marry you."

Felicity shut her eyes, because it was an exquisite kind of pain, to know that they both wanted something they couldn't have, but a giddy kind of joy, to know that sometime, somehow, they'd get there. They'd join hands and say the words and be joined for life, maybe even after that (she wouldn't put it past them to try). Then — as if it was ever in question — they would be so beautifully, so _incandescently_ happy together.

 _That_ — was her dream.

"I love you, Oliver Queen," she said, as though it was a secret, as though it wasn't something they both knew in their hearts. But when in a prison cell, subtext went out the window, and after he'd just told her that the idea of marrying her was what brought him back from being clinically dead, an _I-Love-You_ seemed like the bare minimum of what she wanted to say to him.

A door cranked sonorously open, shattering the fragile silence. Apprehension thrummed in her veins at the sound of footsteps echoing down the hallway. Felicity glanced involuntarily at her watch and tucked her arm behind her back.

"Lyla," she whispered.

Lyla woke like Oliver did, alert, without a trace of grogginess.

"What's happening?" Felicity asked her, but she shook her head.

Felicity jumped a foot back when the door slammed open, and she stared at the person holding the proverbial keys to a captured fortress. There was an acronym to describe moments like these.

_W.T.F._

"Hello, Felicity," said Malcolm. "Your father wants to see you."

Felicity made a rude noise of the _try again_ persuasion. "I'm not going anywhere with you," she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Some very long) Thoughts on 3x23:
> 
> \- WOO HOO WE GOT THE FREAKING PORSCHE AND SUNSET. You can't see me crazy-dancing but I assure you that this episode's Olicity moments made me do just that. Can't deny I'm a little happy they didn't jump the gun with the Olicity wedding. That's season 4/5 stuff.
> 
> \- Diggle + Oliver = BROTP
> 
> \- Diggle + Oliver fighting = heartbreak. Please fix this next season, writers.
> 
> \- Felicity pulled a Pepper Potts YAAAAAAAS how cute was Oliver's smile when he realized she completely saved him? The OTP feelsssss.
> 
> \- BTW, harsh — what the writers did to Palmer. Seriously. Wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy. He has now officially graduated from being Fuckboy Palmer to plain Ray Palmer. In a coma. Or hideously disfigured. Or shrunk to minuscule proportions. I don't know. Yeesh.
> 
> \- I squealed when they name-dropped Damien Darhk. YAAAAS it's happening guys, it's happeningggggg.
> 
> \- Ra's dying was…okay? Was kinda distracted A) by Felicity saving Oliver last-minute, and B) by the general rule of Starling City showdowns. WHICH IS: if you leave the body unattended in a random place, chances are it's going to show up again, very much ALIVE, around 7 episodes into your next season. So…buh-bye for now.
> 
> \- MALCOLM MERLYN GETS TO BE RA'S AL GHUL? *Insert "are you fucking kidding me?" gif* After a TRULY shitty season 3, Nyssa doesn't even get to be Head of the League? That's probably the biggest gripe I have with the finale, that Nyssa's arc wasn't all that resolved. Oh, and that the writers threw in a shot of Sara in the promo and never used it.
> 
> Somebody explain this to me. So Malcolm brainwashed Thea into killing Sara so the League would be drawn to Starling and come after him...only to throw Thea under the bus so that Oliver would challenge Ra's al Ghul...fulfilling the prophecy to be the next Ra's? Okay, so Oliver comes back and Malcolm gets handed to the League again, only he gets his ass saved, and Oliver gets asked to be the next Ra's...only to refuse and bring the League back to Starling again. Teaming up with Oliver to take down Ra's I get, but it doesn't seem like Oliver's dumb enough to hand Malcolm the keys to a killing organization. So really, I understand nothing when it comes to Malcolm's character arc. *Time for season 3 rewatch*
> 
> \- I went to sleep happy and realized (about eight hours later) that they hadn't given us an Olicity kiss. Whaaaat. Wanted one more to tide us over for the summer, but I guess 3x20 and the finale itself are pretty spectacular. OLIVER FREAKING SMILING BEHIND THE WHEEL OF A PORSCHE JUST DRIVIN' OFF INTO THE SUNSET WITH HIS GIRL.
> 
> Conclusion: season 3 was pain, (arguably) unnecessary pain, but the finale Olicity-wise was bonkers amaze-balls. We Olicity fans got Porsches and sunsets, because we freaking deserve it after this roller-coaster of a third season.  
> BRING ON THE FANFICTION AND SEASON 4


	42. Legends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Using some different POVs in this chapter.

Thea took a cautious step forward and felt her foot sink ankle-deep into something disgustingly squelchy. Hopefully just a puddle. Nothing toxic-waste-related, nothing organic. Trying not to gag from the cold sliminess, she checked Felicity's tablet again, which was currently throwing a bluish glow around the circular tunnel — in a way that was not at _all_ creepy.

Because her brother had a thing for requisitioning abandoned underground spaces — basement, tunnel, etc. etc.

"I think I know this place," said Roy, bracing his hand against a rusting iron grate as he crept ahead of her. "I've seen that crossing before."

Ray shone his version of a flashlight — a weird LED sphere she'd completely blanked on when he tried to explain — into the murky darkness. "Because you're secretly one of the mole people?" he said, dubiously.

Even though Thea knew next to nothing about Ray Palmer (besides his Supersuit and the fact that he'd stolen her brother's company), she was inclined to agree. "Roy, just hold on. Let me make sure we're in the right place."

"Roy, be careful," Ronnie said, startling Thea with his sudden reappearance. "Storm drains aren't always as shallow as they look."

"Um — how do you know that — uh — Ronnie?" Thea asked, trying not to think about the way her heart was slamming into her ribcage.

"I lived in one," he answered, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

" _Guys_ ," Barry huffed. "I'm sure we can discuss our unique life experiences when we get to the secondary Foundry, but Cisco and Caitlin have no upper body strength, and this isn't exactly a prime hiking trail. So unless you want Sara to land facedown in sewage — sorry, _rainwater_ — I _really_ need a place to put her down. Okay?" He wheezed. "Okay."

"Sorry, Barry," Thea said, going back to the map. At least with a 140 IQ (Ray's words, not hers) and a structural engineer (Ronnie, pre-incendiary) helping decipher the map of Starling's storm drains, there was a chance they'd get to the secondary Foundry before the non-existent alligators showed up to eat them.

"Guys, I'm sure it's up here." Roy's feet displaced water as he moved ahead of them.

"Wait —" Thea's hand skidded across the screen, and the whole map suddenly became a lot more detailed. "What did I…hit?" she mumbled, reading the notes on the screen. She must have activated a different version of the map.

_Det time: 90 seconds._

_Act. time: tripwire._

"I think there's something at the end of the tunnel." Ray craned his neck to get a different angle. "What _is_ that?" he muttered.

Thea said a bad word. "Roy!" she cried, just as the crisp twang of a loosed arrow echoed through the tunnel.

The light off the tablet fragmented off the sloping walls when she ran towards him, like they were in a shaky-cam horror movie.

She saw him, still alive, but very shaken. "What happened?"

Roy was sitting in a puddle, breathing hard. " _That_ ," he said, pointing at the crossbow bolt embedded in the far wall. "That almost happened."

Thea sighed, letting her neck sag forward. "My brother, ladies and gentlemen. _King_ of the unexpected booby trap."

"Just out of curiosity," said Ray, "who was Oliver trying to kill with tripwire crossbow?"

" _Alligators_ ," Cisco said, in awe.

"Thank you, Cisco," Caitlin muttered. "Does a trap mean we're getting close?"

Thea consulted the tablet again, this time with a lot more attention to detail. She sloshed through the puddles until she found what she was looking for.

"Well," she said, staring down a ladder shaft. "Ladies first."

Thea slid down the rails and landed with a faint squeak, her soaked shoes meeting surprisingly dry concrete. She heard her friends land one by one behind her, but she was already moving ahead, into the darkness.

She'd just lost her brother and was — for the first time since she'd stopped being _just_ Thea Queen — on her own. Oliver wasn't there to guide her, and it was a dangerous world out there. No matter how much she rolled her eyes at him, she wasn't quite ready to be without her only family left in the world.

But she was an archer like her brother, and in the shadows her other senses took precedence, drawing the murky edges of the darkness into shapes and corners, creating a world where her eyes couldn't.

Thea walked up to a wall until she could feel the faint breath of air on her face — cool, and light.

A door.

"Guys," she said, as unseen gears began to crank and turn. "We're here."

* * *

Firmly putting her foot down? Yeah, didn't work so well with a League-trained assassin and psychopathic mass murderer. Felicity landed on her knees in the corridor with a set of high-tech restraints around her wrists.

"Malcolm," said Oliver, glaring at him through the cell door. "So you're HIVE."

Malcolm folded his arms and looked down at Felicity like she was a misbehaving child. "When a League of highly-trained killers want your head on a silver platter, you tend to find ways of insuring yourself against future harm."

He looked grotesquely proud, something Felicity added to her list of things to decimate at the earliest opportunity.

"If you think for a second that my dad's magical list of threats doesn't have your name on it — you're going to be very surprised when he points a gun in your face and pulls the trigger," Felicity said, glowering at him from the ground. "Was I being unnecessarily graphic? It's because I don't like you."

Malcolm smirked, and hauled her up by the back of her jacket. Felicity shoved her elbows into his chest, but Malcolm's arm wrapped around her neck, pressing on her throat.

Oliver slammed his hands into the door. "Malcolm, if you hurt her —"

"— empty threats, Oliver," said Malcolm, as Felicity furiously attempted to knee him somewhere that would hurt. But her efforts quickly had to be diverted to making sure his arm didn't choke her into unconsciousness.

"Struggle all you want, Felicity, but I could snap your neck, right here, in front of your beloved," he said, in her ear (ew). "And I wouldn't give it a second thought. That's how little you matter in the grand scheme of things."

" _Try it_ ," Felicity croaked. "If you kill me, your premium insurance policy with HIVE goes out the window — I _guarantee_ it."

Malcolm sounded amused when he lifted his chokehold, and gripped her collar like she was some kind of unruly pet he had to keep under control. "For now," he said, and pushed her ahead of him.

* * *

"In a shocking turn of events, Oliver Queen has been outed as the Arrow. Police have found evidence that the basement of _Verdant_ , a popular local nightclub, was being used as the vigilante's hideout. The nightclub's owner, as many well know, is Oliver Queen's younger sister Thea Queen. It is unknown whether Ms. Queen has been taken into custody along with her brother, but —"

The continuous drone of the news just kept repeating what they already knew. Oliver Queen was suspected of being the Arrow, John Diggle and Felicity Smoak his accomplices. No word yet on any criminal charges, no word on their whereabouts. It was like one year ago, all over again. They were in the same abandoned train tunnel (the secondary Arrow Cave), on the run and in hiding, trying to fight something that was bigger, so much bigger than they could ever be.

Barry was glad when one of them finally turned it off. Thea, a flash of pain in her eyes at the thought of her brother in ARGUS hands.

"So…" said Cisco, tentatively. "I'll just come out and say it — this plan? _Insane_."

Half a dozen heads looked up from the table (Barry included), scattered with maps and diagrams and one glowing tablet computer, all reminding them that their friends were in ARGUS custody and probably hours away from being declared public enemies by a paranoid District Attorney. Oh, and that there was a recently deceased assassin lying unconscious in one of the train compartments.

…and even Cisco — _Cisco_ — thought it was pure, unadulterated crazy. Not so clear was whether he thought that was a good thing.

"I know it's not exactly ideal," said Ray, his newbie status apparently going hand in hand with optimism. "But it's Felicity's plan, right? That means it's probably going to work."

Barry looked over his shoulder when Thea walked up to them, sliding her phone into her back pocket. "That was Laurel," she said. "She's going to stay in the DA's office to keep us updated. Right now, no one knows why Ollie and the others aren't in custody — the only thing they know is that a federal agency wants to finish questioning them before they get turned over to the local police."

Roy nodded, and their hands entwined on the table edge, as easy as habit. "At least we can tell her Sara's safe with us," he said, a single bright spot in the very, very dark and extensive list of bad news they were currently getting.

"Um, guys," said Cisco. "I don't want to be the buzzkill here, but _what are we going to do_? This plan is Felicity-crazy. The kind of crazy that only works when there's someone like Oliver — who probably isn't human — to keep up with it."

Roy and Thea (the _only_ members of Team Arrow left in the group-up) exchanged looks, turning back to the rest of the table with near-identical expressions of _no biggie_. Oliver had trained them well. Cisco made an exasperated noise. "Look at this," he said, jabbing his finger at a heavily highlighted map. "Ferris airfield? It's been abandoned since — since —"

"—that test pilot disappeared," Barry volunteered. "It was one of the unexplained incidents I was investigating, you know, before I _became_ one of the unexplained incidents. Long story, but the pilot —"

"— Cisco," said Thea, with a firm pat on Barry's arm. "What's your point?"

Cisco looked momentarily distracted that Thea was speaking to him directly, so Caitlin jumped in. "I get that the airfield is some kind of ARGUS depot for their jets," she said, looking them all in the eye, "but do any of us know how to pilot state-of-the-art military aircraft?"

There was a silence. Barry thought about the number of hours he'd spent playing video games with Cisco, compared it to the logistics of actually flying a real (and armed) jet, and decided it was probably better if he sat on the idea for a while.

Ronnie noticed Cisco's stare. "Cisco," he said, reasonably. "I can fly because my hands shoot flames. It's _very_ different from knowing how to pilot."

"Yeah, but it's like having jet engines for hands, right? So what if —"

"Uh." Ray raised his finger. "I have a helicopter," he said.

Roy pointed at him. "He has a helicopter," he said, as if he was saying _huh_ , the kind followed by a period.

"No, guys, I'm serious." Ray was reaching for the tablet computer, skimming through the specs. "Cisco, I bet you could help me write an autopilot patch for the ARGUS tech — Advanced Piloting for Dummies, or something. It can't be that far off from the piloting and trajectory systems in my suit, right?" Ray grinned. "Guys, this is completely and one-hundred-percent do-able."

"Okay," said Caitlin, skimming through the list. "So we're picking little Sara up from Felicity's mom as soon as we're out of the sewers, and Felicity's mom is booked on a flight that leaves in two hours. That means the next thing we have to do is…" Her expression turned nonplussed. "Pick up somebody named Connor Hawke and get him to Detective West. ASAP."

"Who's Connor Hawke?" said Ray.

Barry glanced at Roy before he could stop himself. Not cool, super not cool. Funny how he'd completely forgotten about Oliver's (insert hushed whisper here) _totally secret kid_.

"It's…a long story," said Roy, reaching for his phone. "Barry, could you call Detective West, maybe get him to help us out?"

Barry scratched the back of his head. "I don't know, guys. Joe can help — and he will, no questions asked. But I'm a CSI and I know what CCPD's like. There's a lot on the system, and Felicity's super villain dad's a hacker, right? Even if we took… _Connor_ into protective custody, there's a chance ARGUS might find him. We can't let that happen."

"I'll go," said Ronnie, suddenly.

"Ronnie…" Caitlin touched his arm. "What are you —?"

"This…Connor Hawke," he said, looking from Roy to Thea to Barry. "He's important, right?"

Thea nodded. "He is."

"Then I'll go. I'll get him out of Central City, and meet up with Dr. Stein, so if anything comes after us, he'll have Firestorm to protect him." He touched Caitlin's hand, her cheek. "I know you don't want me to go, but if there's anyone who knows how to stay off the grid, it's me."

Caitlin grasped his hand, leaning into his touch. "Be safe," she whispered. "And come home."

Ronnie kissed her forehead. "I will." He turned to the others. "I'll call as soon as I have him."

He'd just started to go when Barry did an ungainly flail, accidentally slapping the table and sending a few sheets rolling across the steel surface. "Wait — Ronnie — wait," he said. "Before we start doing the Save-the-City thing, I think we all need to hear something. I know it's not usually me giving the motivational speeches, but…" He caught Roy's eye, and softened his voice. "We're on our own. All of us, and I think we're about as close to another war as we're going to get."

Roy nodded, and Barry knew — despite their differences, both in personality and approach to the hero thing — that he had his back. So did he.

"If Damien Darhk gets what he wants, people like us, they'll all be hunted, their homes destroyed, just like Oliver, Felicity, and Diggle's home — just like STAR Labs — all gone. He'll try to quantify us, he'll try to dissect us, and he'll try to control us." Barry shook his head. "We can't let that happen. Oliver, Felicity and Diggle gave themselves up because they understood that stopping him was more important, and not just that." He gripped Roy's arm. "Because he trusts that you and Thea will get them back. Oliver started his crusade alone, but now he has you guys — he has all of us — and he _knows_ it. For once in his life, he knows that he's not alone and he's depending on us to prove him right."

"And we will," said Roy. He straightened up, planting his hands on the table edge as he spoke. "Look, I know we're not the whole team. I know we're missing some pretty important pieces to this machine, and if anyone knows how important the three of them are to this crusade, it's me. The three of them — they took me in and they made me who I am. If there are legends in this world…those three? They're _it_."

He looked around the table, and apart from the faint creaks and ripples of the underground tunnel, it was quiet, because everyone was listening. "But so are we. We're not just vigilantes, we're not just _masks_. Each of you has gone above and beyond what any normal person should have to do to protect the home they love, and that — _that_ — makes us who we are. Oliver started something, three years ago. He gave the city a hero and three years later the city's given him heroes in return." Then Roy did something that Barry wasn't expecting. He smiled, and it was a proud one, so trusting, and so, so certain. "We're going to save our friends, and we're going to make sure that people like us — people who want to protect the people they care about and the places they love — they'll get to make that choice for themselves. Let's do this."

It felt like a war council, a pretty successful one at that. Motivational pep talks and cool last words. " _Let's do this?_ " Barry said, the corners of his eyes creasing from trying not to laugh. "That's your big close?"

Roy flicked him on the arm, which seemed about as affectionate as it got. "Yeah, well, _don't fail this city_ was already taken. Had to come up with something on the fly."

"I like it," Barry answered, meaning it. "Old school."

Thea propped her elbows on both their shoulders, looking from one to the other. "Oliver's going to be so proud of you both. Stepping up like that, making the uplifting speeches…you're really checking all the boxes for Model Protégé Behavior."

"Just talk, though," said Roy, showing a little worry. "We still have a long way to go before we can call it a day."

"Yeah, but still." Barry shrugged. "It's gotta feel pretty good. We finally feel like a team. Stealing a jet, thwarting _Minority Report_ -style plans, it's all in a day's —"

There was a resounding crash, one that echoed around and around the smooth tunnel walls in a dozen variations, confusing them enough to delay the moment when they all turned — one by one — to face the source of the sound.

One of the train compartments was open, the one they'd been using as a recovery room, and someone — the _only_ someone outside the six of them — was standing in the shadow of the doorway.

Nobody moved an inch as she did. Three, surprisingly steady steps, solid against the steel. Hands twisted tight around the railing, knuckles white from the strain.

Barry didn't know all that much about Sara, except that she was Laurel's sister, a member of the League of Assassins, a meta, and Oliver's second ex-girlfriend with the last name Lance (some weird, very weird relationship dynamics going on there).

Oh, and that she'd been dead. Very dead.

" _Whoa_ ," Cisco breathed, and not for the first time, summarizing exactly what was going through Barry's head.

"I've obviously missed a few beats," Sara said, in a voice hoarse from disuse. "Somebody mind catching me up on the whole story?"

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note: Did anyone else watch the Legends of Tomorrow trailer? So glad they changed it from The ATOM (disaster waiting to happen). Words cannot describe how incredibly happy I am to see Caity Lotz back as Sara Lance, and I never thought I'd say this about white leather, but her costume looks so much better than Laurel's weird buckle fetish version. Slightly worried about the CGI with regards to Ray's suit and the Hawkgirl stuff, but Vandal Savage...
> 
> AWESOME.
> 
> Let's hope they don't pull a Ra's al Ghul and give him a plan that makes zero sense. *fingers crossed*


	43. Father, Daughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeeey, so I realize I'm a little (very) late with this week's update and I'm sorry for that. But London's so damn fun when you're not rushing to finish school stuff, and the people unfortunate enough to be my friends insist on showing me that I have a life.
> 
> In other words, my bad.
> 
> Anyways, enjoy the update!

"Get off me!" Felicity snapped, wrenching her arm free of Malcolm's grip. "I can walk by myself, _thanks_ for the concern."

Malcolm sighed, like the constant _I-hate-you_ vibes radiating off of her were getting tiresome. "My alliance with your father means that I am not the enemy, Felicity," he said.

Felicity stopped in the middle of the hallway, and turned to face him. They were alone, glass walls and empty rooms, their dim reflections in the desolation of ARGUS creating dozens of ghosts that weren't really there. "You are," she said, in a voice that bristled with not-at-all concealed distrust. "You broke into Oliver's home and threatened us, you tried to use Oliver's son against him, you _knew_ what my dad was doing to Sara, you _have_ to know what he plans to do with his stupid watchdog initiative and you still chose his side? Believe it or not, Malcolm, that makes you the enemy. That makes you _my_ enemy."

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. Even though he was working for Damien, he still had a sword in his belt — one Felicity was itching to run him through with.

"Forgive me if I don't cower," he said. "Because unlike your Oliver, you haven't exactly racked up a track record of intimidation."

"I haven't?" Felicity took a step forward, and another. "Did anyone ever tell you what happened to Ra's al Ghul? Or Slade Wilson?"

Malcolm reached out and tucked a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear, as if he was doing it for a child. "You have seen so little of the world, Felicity." His hand would have lingered on her cheek, except she jerked her face away, an instinctive response to his creep-touch and the fact that it was her father's words coming from the mouth of a snake. "The things I know — about death, about your father, about HIVE…they'd make you reconsider that threat, because you don't have nearly enough darkness in those eyes to make me feel fear."

He was right. But that wasn't a bad thing. Felicity wasn't in a playground, trying to show the older kids that she had guts. She was in a world where things went wrong at a moment's notice and friends plummeted from buildings with arrows buried in their stomachs.

Also, being consistently underestimated as a non-threat just because she didn't know any ninja moves…that was getting old. Fast.

"Okay — so how about this?" Felicity said. "I crack open whatever lockbox you _think_ protects your existence and spill all your dirty secrets onto the Internet. A dead man's probably safe from the not-so-metaphorical crowd of lowlifes with bones to pick with him, but you won't stay dead for long once I get my hands on a working computer. I may not have enough _darkness_ like you say, but I'm sure there's plenty of pissed-off people happy to pick up the slack where you're concerned. That's got to be pretty scary, right?"

For a moment, Felicity was hoping Malcolm would suffer a fatal stroke and drop dead, but life was rarely ever that kind. "You know, Felicity," he said, a mask-like smile on his features, "you _are_ your father's daughter. If only I should be so lucky with my Thea."

"Don't hold your breath," she answered, hard-edged from the steel rushing through her veins. "Thea's a Queen, through and through. Just like her brother."

"And you, I imagine." Malcolm's eyes traveled from head to toe. "Moira would have been very proud. The Queen men always did need strong women to be their backbone — almost as if they know to compensate for a fatal weakness. I imagine that's one of the many qualities Oliver appreciates in you. Felicity… _Darhk_."

Felicity flinched. "That's not my name."

Malcolm gave her a gentle shove, sending her stumbling ahead of him in the corridor. "Isn't it, though?" he said, taking her to see her father.

* * *

Barry tried to imagine more awkward situations. There was that one time Oliver nearly choked him to death for being in the Foundry, the time Felicity's shirt caught fire in STAR Labs and she'd pulled it off in front of him, and that other time when Nyssa, Sara's ex-girlfriend (did being dead make a relationship automatically _ex_?), tried to crush his windpipe with one hand.

Hiding in the grass outside a heavily-secured (probably) airfield didn't seem so bad in comparison.

"Does Nyssa know that she's back?"

"No," was Roy's curt answer.

Barry automatically massaged his throat, trying not to gulp at the memory of Nyssa nearly throttling him. "Should we tell the League's super-scary leader that her ex-girlfriend's back from the dead?"

"Sara didn't say."

They were crouched a few feet away from the rusted steel fence marking the perimeter of Ferris airfield. It was far from quiet, because the fence rattled and the grass rustled every time a gust of wind swept across the plain, a combination loud enough to cover their whispered interaction.

"Do you think there's like a list of things people shouldn't be doing after — you know — being _resurrected_?" Barry asked, shifting his elbows so that the dry grass wasn't stabbing him in the arms. "Like how you're not supposed to operate heavy machinery after taking pain meds? Should recently-dead people be sneaking onto airfields and stealing jets?"

Roy turned his head and shot Barry a decent approximation of an Oliver-Queen-Death-Glare. "Is this your idea of being sneaky?" he asked.

"I'm sorry, did the giant lightning bolt on my chest not tell you that I'm a secret master ninja with level forty-four stealth wings?"

Roy rolled his eyes. "A, I don't speak nerd, and B, Sara's been — _alive_ — for a while now, Barry. She always comes through for the team, and I trust her. If she says she can do this, she can do this."

"Yeah, but it's not just about trust. After what Darhk did to her — are you sure it's a good plan to send in the person with emotional trauma first?"

"Emotional trauma," Roy answered, "is a regular Wednesday for Team Arrow. We do what we have to do — for the city, or our friends — _then_ we deal with it. That's kinda what the team motto is."

"What, unhealthy repression?" Barry asked, wondering if he'd dodged a bullet by getting sporadic mentor sessions from Oliver Queen.

"No." Roy squinted at something Barry couldn't quite spot in the distance. "It's called putting _them_ , before us."

Before Barry could question that highly dubious stance, Roy tapped on his earpiece to open the comms. "Canary, what's your status?" he said.

There was a sharp _thwack_ that made Barry wince, and a thud that formed a pretty clear picture of what just happened. "In position," Sara answered. "I assume one of you knows how to fly a jet, because I just knocked out the pilot."

* * *

ARGUS taken over by HIVE looked startlingly similar, at least from Felicity's point of view. Then again, besides the underground labyrinth that was Nanda Parbat, Felicity hadn't had much experience with the Evil Incorporated aesthetic.

Somehow she'd expected more open flames.

Damien hadn't gone for the room with the giant view of the skyline — the most obvious choice for super villain brooding. Whatever wall space that might have gone towards windows had gone towards massive screens instead, all showing ARGUS's many surveillance points across Starling City. It was immediately apparent that he'd chosen the heart of ARGUS tech, some kind of two-tiered chamber with more computers than actual seats, with a central screen so big that Felicity immediately wished she had one.

You know, if he hadn't blown up the only place they might _actually_ need it.

Their entrance put them on the balcony overlooking the main floor, and Felicity spotted her father across from them, in conversation with one of his HIVE drones. Or maybe an ARGUS traitor — the guy's eyes seemed too non-vacant to be under mind control.

"Imposing center-of-all-evil vibe," she muttered, as the door whooshed closed behind her. "Funny, I was expecting a throne. Or, like, a customized back support chair. Super-villainy really takes a toll on the lumbar region."

Malcolm gestured to Felicity, a little unnecessarily. "I've brought your daughter, Mr. Darhk."

Felicity raised her eyebrows, dividing the sarcasm between her dad and Malcolm. "What — you guys aren't on a first name basis?" she said. "Don't go through any pretense on my account. As far as I'm concerned, the both of you already won Worst Bromance of the Century. By a landslide."

Damien dismissed the drone with a wave of his hand and turned to them. "Thank you, Mr. Merlyn," he said. "Your services to HIVE shall not be forgotten."

Malcolm inclined his head. "I'm gratified to hear that."

Damien laid his hand on Felicity's shoulder (the sore one, _again_ ) and turned her towards the railing, like they were about to have a father-daughter chat over the view of a conquered ARGUS. "I trust your brief detention wasn't too unpleasant?"

"Not my first time in an ARGUS prison cell." Felicity was resolutely not thinking about the lightless room she'd shared with Waller, on the eve of the League's mass execution of the captured ARGUS agents.

"I remember." Damien nodded, and his look of approval made Felicity very wary. "You've always been strong, Felicity, and I am glad for it."

The hidden compliment still felt like a twist of the knife. "I thought I was a _profound disappointment_?" Felicity said, bluntly. "Now I'm strong, too? Excuse me while I roll over with delight."

The hit glanced right off Damien's unflappable exterior. "I may not agree with the choices you've made," he said, "but you're still my daughter. You've always had a mind of your own — it's time I reconciled myself to that."

Felicity shook her head, both to the apparent praise and whatever he wanted in return for it. "I'm going to save you some time, because there is no apology in the world that can make me unsee the way you've violated all these people. Freedom isn't a switch you get to flip whenever it's convenient, and what you're doing to them? It's unforgivable."

"I imagine it must be difficult to understand, but HIVE works for the greater good, and it always has. Sometimes, in order for a goal to be reached, certain compromises must be made in order to avert larger losses. HIVE is better armed, better resourced, and in every possible scenario we would have emerged the victor. The autonomy of ARGUS agents remaining loyal to a ghost is a worthy sacrifice to avert the loss of life that would have ensued, had they attempted to fight us."

Felicity blew out her breath, trying not to throw up in her mouth. "Super-villains and natural selection wack-theories. Color me not at all surprised."

"You have a sharp tongue," Damien observed. "You certainly didn't acquire that from your mother."

Felicity shot him a look. "You do _not_ get to talk about mom. Just like you don't get to bluff your way into being anything less than a nonexistent parent. If you want something, I'll save you some time and say a blanket _no_ to whatever it is. Now if you'll wake up your pet-slash-BFF for escort duty, I'd like to go back to my cell now."

Instead of signaling to Malcolm, Damien folded his arms behind his back. "Do you remember your first job offer?" he asked, watching her carefully.

Felicity wasn't expecting this, a question not quite related to anything else, a question so…mundane. Even more so was the fact that she actually remembered.

It'd been a multinational tech company — on paper, anyway. An unremarkable job, but a good one, as far as a fresh graduate was concerned. A chance to go abroad and see more of the world, a job _actually_ related to something she'd studied…She'd been up for it at the same time as the Queen Consolidated IT position, interviewing for (and biting her nails about) both.

Maybe it was something about the company. Too clean. Ticking all of the boxes. Not most, but _all_. Maybe it was the guy from HR who'd interviewed her. It gave her the skeevies, so when she'd been given the choice between QC and Skeevy-Central, she'd done some digging.

A _lot_ of it. Of the hacking variety.

"It was some tech company," she said, grudgingly. "They offered me a job in Copenhagen, full benefits and everything — but I looked into their systems and traced them back to a shell corporation. A whole tier of shell corporations, actually. Didn't want to end up in a shipping container, dead or otherwise, so I said no."

Damien's expression wasn't exactly reassuring. "To the outside world, it was a perfect ruse, designed to help agents maintain their cover as employees of nominal interest to any suspicious eyes."

"A ruse?" Felicity repeated. "You're saying…"

"ARGUS." Damien tilted his head, unfazed by her surprise. "It was a recruitment program. Had you agreed, you would have been offered a chance to train as an ARGUS agent, working against cyber-terrorists and safeguarding your nation's secrets. As annoyed as she was that a college graduate had breached our systems, Amanda was very impressed with you."

"Amanda?" Felicity was stunned. She'd always assumed that her partnering up with Oliver was what made her show up on Amanda's radar. Not…Damien.

"Amanda knew of you, yes, but as a result of the circumstances under which I joined ARGUS. I'd made anerror, you see. I was young, impulsive. I wrote a hostile program and provoked the wrong people, caused a foreign relations disaster — or so I was told. Amanda was called in to assess my person as a threat, but she made a different offer. I was to join ARGUS and protect my country, or spend the rest of my life in prison, and expose my family to the repercussions of my actions."

Felicity didn't move — she felt like she'd forgotten how.

A stupid mistake. Hubris. A program they'd written. Same beats, just a different time. All along she'd wanted to think that Damien had nothing in common with her, but it turned out that he had his own version of the Brother Eye virus — except his had ended up costing more.

"The nature of my work with Amanda would have put my family at risk, so I was told to leave, without saying why. It was one of the conditions I had to accept before I could join — my family, or my work. The choice pained me, but I did so on the condition that you would one day join me in ARGUS. I'd seen your potential. Even as a child, you were clever, quick to learn — inquisitive, and you took after me. I had no doubt in your abilities, and Amanda did agree to my terms, on the condition that you would turn out to be impressive, an asset worth having. And you _were_ , Felicity, you were," said Damien, while Felicity looked at her dad like she'd never seen him before.

"Your inborn nature triumphed, and you showed yourself to be my daughter. Amanda made the offer at my request, and she did again, many times over the years. My wish was for you to join me in ARGUS, but you have always chosen differently. Queen Consolidated, and now Palmer Technologies." Damien's expression was of mild regret. "I thought the best way for a reconciliation was for you to understand — what I did, and who I was. I am deeply sorry for the hurt I caused you, but I was given an unthinkable choice, and I made it, in the hope that one day…you would see."

Damien touched her arm, and for once in her life, Felicity didn't want to flinch away. "Do you?" he asked, quietly. "Do you see?"

Felicity couldn't believe she was considering it. An unthinkable choice. ARGUS, to protect her. What if her dad's choice was the reason for his darkness? What if it was because of a mistake he'd made…one that was achingly similar to hers?

ARGUS — problematic.

HIVE — inexcusable.

Mind control — unforgivable.

Her mind churned with dueling instincts. She was supposed to hate Damien for what he'd done to her friends and family, but a seed of uncertainty was growing at the back of her mind — was he really that far gone?

They'd reached the bottom of the staircase. Damien had been guiding her towards the front of the room, and she hadn't even noticed. She'd been too absorbed by her thoughts. Shivers of pain radiated up her arm, a reminder of what he'd done to Sara, and to _her_.

A reminder that he'd done the unforgivable.

"Your abilities have surpassed my every expectation," said Damien. She saw that he was standing by a computer, waiting for her to join him.

She did, and every step felt like she was walking on uneven ground, on uncharted territory. The screen glowed a pale blue, lending an icy cast to her father's features, like they were both under deep water.

But when she saw what her father was looking at, her hands balled into fists.

_ORACLE._

It was on a different screen, a different computer, but it was still — for all intents and purposes — completely locked. Suddenly, she knew why her father wanted her here, why he'd told her the things he did.

He couldn't unlock it either.

Meanwhile, Damien continued on, seemingly oblivious to her apprehension. "But now I think it's time for father and daughter to join forces, don't you think?"

Felicity wanted to be wrong. For the longest second, she wanted to be wrong about her father. It was weak, and it was selfish, but it was true. The story, the explanation…they'd given her a hope that her father wasn't the man she thought he was.

But the answer to her simple question…it would decide. Once and for all.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked.

Her father's voice was soft in her ear. "Unlock it," he said. "Unleash ORACLE onto the world. It's what you were meant to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Spoilers if you don't watch the Flash*
> 
> WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT CLIFFHANGER. OH MY GOD.  
> WHY WOULD THEY GIVE EDDIE THE TOMMY DEATH. EVEN THE WOUND. IN THE HEART. THE SHIRT. HOLY EFFING SHIT THE WRITERS ARE CRUEL.  
> Don't even get me started on the moment with Barry's mother. I was shattered. The Flash writers are just too good at what they do.  
> But seriously, all that science babble just made me so glad I do not write fanfiction for The Flash. My brain would explode.


	44. ORACLE

Oliver was pacing. Five paces in either direction. Once, twice, again.

"Oliver," said Diggle. " _Stop_."

Oliver ignored the request and cast a dark look at the cell door. "Something's not right," he said. "She's been gone too long."

"You of all people know how long-winded Darhk can be," Diggle said, in his usual pragmatic way. "And he wouldn't hurt her. This is his own daughter we're talking about."

There was something else they weren't saying, just in case there were ears. It was that the escape plan depended heavily on all of them being in the same place. Even if Darhk did something as simple as moving them out of the building, it still threw their plans into disarray.

Plans. They really needed to come up with better contingencies.

But even more pressing was Damien's treatment of his only daughter. Oliver silently thought back to the way Damien had watched — _ordered_ — a brainwashed Sara to subdue Felicity, even at the risk of physical harm. If a father could watch his daughter's pain without wavering…

He shut his eyes.

Felicity wasn't safe.

Oliver heard a sound from the far end of the hallway and was at the cell door in an instant. "Felicity?" he said. "Are you all right?"

"Sorry to disappoint," said Malcolm, flanked by the Suicide Squad. "But it's time to go."

* * *

The hallways were silent, like a battlefield in the wake of a war. Oliver looked past the overturned tables and smashed screens, spotting a few bloodstains — smeared up the glass walls — eerie in their singularity. To the inexperienced eye it appeared that ARGUS hadn't fought back. But he knew it simply meant that they'd been overwhelmed.

"The majority of the fight occurred belowground," Malcolm said, as he strolled past the rooms without a second glance. "Perpetually the fate of ARGUS, it seems."

"Don't look so smug, Malcolm," said Lyla. "It's not a victory if you use a coward's tactics."

Malcolm's reflection smirked. "Mr. Darhk certainly wasn't exaggerating when he described you, Director Michaels. Proud — and excessively deluded. Normally, a betrayal within the highest reaches of leadership is a sign that the leadership itself was flawed, no? I like to think that we did you a favor."

"And here come the mind games," Diggle sighed. "Cut the crap, Malcolm. Where are you taking us?"

Malcolm only smiled. "I see no reason to provide that information."

Oliver's hands wereheld in front of him by the restraints, but he flexed his fingers all the same. It wasn't his first time in handcuffs. "Where's Felicity?" he asked, carefully.

Malcolm shrugged. "My apologies, Oliver, but your relationship with her notwithstanding, I don't see any reason I should tell you."

Oliver glanced over his shoulder, at his friends, at their armed guards. Each of them had a soldier keeping them in check. Deadshot was Diggle's, Cupid's was his, but both were as blank as slates, and while their movements were fluid, there was a trancelike quality to them — a lack of their usual acuity. The real versions of themselves should have kept a safe distance away, rifles trained on their prisoners' backs. Proximity was Oliver's advantage, and he wasn't hesitant about using it.

It was a gamble, but —

Oliver feinted losing his balance, using the momentary slackness of Cupid's grip to fight back. He slammed his elbow into her throat and caught her behind the knee with a swing of his leg. Malcolm was just starting to turn when he crashed back against the wall, Oliver's hands clenched around his throat.

Restraints didn't mean that he wasn't dangerous.

"Oliver!" said Lyla, but Oliver wasn't listening.

"When I spared you in the graveyard, after you threatened my son, after _your_ earthquake machine killed Tommy, I thought it meant that I would never kill my sister's father. But if you've hurt her," he said, low and fierce, "that will change."

Oliver flinched when the butt of a rifle crashed into his back, but he kept his eyes on Malcolm, making sure that he understood the very thin line that stood between him and death. It was a morbid realization, but out of all the people who'd been threatened in his lifetime, the people who'd threatened Felicity had by far the lowest survival rate.

"You really _are_ the blunt instrument to her finesse, aren't you?" Malcolm croaked, his teeth bared with derisive glee. "Are you truly willing to die in a hallway — before you've had the chance to see her again — all to threaten someone like me?"

Diggle's voice was at his shoulder now. "Oliver, it's not worth it. Felicity's safe — Darhk wouldn't hurt her."

Malcolm's stare was bloodshot but no less mocking, even as Oliver released him and stepped back. His shoulders stung from the blows, and there was a spreading dampness on his shirt that suggested one of them had broken the skin, but he raised his open hands in a pointed gesture that he was done.

For now.

"No," he said, in response to Malcolm's question. "But only because I know it takes very little to make you run scared, Malcolm."

The barrel of a rifle was pressed decisively against his back now. Malcolm wheezed in laughter and massaged his throat, whitened from the force of Oliver's grip.

"I'm starting to see how the two of you are a perfect match for each other," he rasped. "The both of you seem to enjoy delivering your threats in a hallway."

Oliver's gaze sharpened. "Then you'd best start hearing them."

Malcolm straightened up and adjusted his collar, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. But his expression had lost some of its mockery, as if they — Felicity, and himself — had earned Malcolm's begrudging respect. "Perhaps the both of you _are_ something worth fearing, after all," he said.

* * *

Felicity knew that her father was watching, waiting expectantly for her to do what she'd been told. Like he was entitled to it, after telling her that story, the reason why he'd become… _this_.

The blood rushed into her numb hands when she unclenched them, and reached out to touch the keyboard. It hummed beneath her fingertips, part of a living machine. Computers were hers as much as her father's, and as much as she disliked Amanda Waller — even she had seen that too.

If Felicity yielded, if she chose to stand with her father, there was no doubt in her mind that they could destroy the world.

But she wasn't about to yield just yet. "Why HIVE?" she asked. "Why the double-cross?"

"ARGUS was rotten to the core," said Damien. "As I'm sure you remember. HIVE works for the greater good and the security of all. ARGUS forced me to abandon my family. I owed it no loyalty, so when HIVE offered me the chance to wipe its chaos from the face of the earth, I agreed."

To destroy ARGUS in retaliation for an unthinkable choice.

To ally with HIVE, the same organization who'd killed Diggle's brother.

To proudly spearhead a plan that passed justice on innocent people based on who they might become.

Felicity shut her eyes, because all she could see — besides the cruel choice he'd had to make — was the darkness. It consumed him, it sustained him…and it blinded him. To the point where he thought telling her the story, the beginning of where it all went wrong, could justify the betrayals, and what he'd done to countless innocent people.

Damien believed that he was fighting for true justice, to right the wrongs done to him, but all Felicity saw was someone fighting for revenge, someone who'd seen _only one way_ out of a bad situation. He wasn't fighting to live, he was fighting to burn down everyone and everything that had ever wronged him.

It wasn't right.

"Chaos," she said, her palms hovering above the keyboard, "and ORACLE. If the Sentinel Initiative already identifies threats, what's so important about a laptop?"

Stalling wasn't all that different from lying, neither of which she was particularly good at. But she supposed it helped, being genuinely curious. And she was. She wanted to know why and how a single laptop could prove so important to a plan as big as Damien's.

Damien said nothing, at first. Felicity looked at him. "You said I was inquisitive. Before I unlock it, I want to know why it's so important." She paused, testing out the lie in her mind. "Before I help you."

There was power in saying the exact thing someone else wanted to believe, and it tugged at her again, knowing that Damien wanted her to join him.

But he _was_ proud, and Felicity knew it. There was nothing he liked better than to educate, even the daughter he apparently saw as his equal in ability.

Damien folded his arms behind his back, ready to deliver his lesson. "The rudimentary nature of the Sentinel Initiative is to identify threats, to project — based on a collection of facts — whether an individual is likely to become a menace. HIVE and ARGUS both possess formidable a wealth of information on the human population, but Amanda and I agreed that true justice simply required _more_. The predictions were only as flawless as the information on which they stood, and our information was lacking. So," Damien gestured with a sweep of his hand. "We devised a solution. _The_ solution."

"Information," Felicity said. "That's all ORACLE is — just a database?"

Damien looked amused, as if she'd grossly oversimplified. "ORACLE…is a being. Like the entity for which it was named, ORACLE _sees_. A blind algorithm is fed zettabytes of data every day, and it sifts — as it should — for recurring patterns, but ORACLE is a thing of its own. It doesn't wait to be told, it searches — it seeks out what is hidden to compensate for what it doesn't know. It is an intelligent entity designed to learn all it can about everyone and everything, so as to predict what might become a future threat to collective security. No database, secured, or otherwise, will be closed to ORACLE's reach."

Felicity's mind raced ahead with the possibilities. Her dad had basically just described a hybrid of artificial intelligence and programmed inquisitiveness…condensed into a vast system designed to hack, to _unveil_.

"No more secrets," she murmured.

Damien's laugh made her skin crawl. "Yes," he said, laying his hand on her shoulder again. "A world with no more secrets, a world with no more lies. Amanda left it to you because she knew that you could unleash its potential. _You_ , Felicity, hold the possibility of a better world in your hands."

"You're right," Felicity said. Her hands moved to wake ORACLE, and under her dad's close scrutiny, she began a complex decryption process — one that would last approximately two and a half minutes, one meant to fail because she didn't have the password. Not even close.

But Damien didn't know that. She could sense his elation, as he turned his attention to ORACLE's unveiling.

"It's tough to crack, isn't it?" Felicity said, all without looking at her father.

Amanda Waller…still changing things from beyond the grave, as if death couldn't stop her from wielding her influence over those who'd survived. The fact had never been more important than it was now. Felicity could see the woman who'd gone to her death with one hell of a fight, a woman who'd wanted her to make the hard choices, and above all — a master strategist and a leader, an individual who never acted without a purpose.

"We're both hackers," Felicity said, thinking aloud. "And since you two were partners, she knew how good you were with computers. It doesn't make sense for her to lock you out and let the computer wind up with me instead. Almost as if she knew — and here's the real shocker — that we wouldn't see eye to eye on your mass genocidal plan."

Damien's fingers were digging into her shoulder now, flooding her mouth with the bitter taste of pain.

"Felicity," he said, in a warning tone of voice, but she ignored him, and seized on the pain, a reminder of what she could withstand, if it meant doing the right thing.

"Almost as if…she _didn't_ want you to have it," she said, just as the computer returned the result she'd been expecting. A fantastically predictable _Access Denied_.

Felicity lifted her chin, and took a deliberate step back, her hands held up sarcastically towards him. The smile on her face was defiant, an unapologetic acknowledgement that she _really_ couldn't unlock his stupid laptop. "Sorry dad, but I think I'm with Amanda on this one."

Instead of the rage she'd been expecting, the silence only stretched on. Damien's grip slid from her shoulder, a light, almost impersonal touch.

But his eyes — they were as unforgiving as chips of stone.

"I must admit, Felicity, I am disappointed," he said, flicking his hand like he'd touched something unclean. "I _had_ hoped that we might reach an understanding, if not an accord. I truly did not want matters to come to this."

He reached out and pressed a button on the keyboard. "Merlyn — if you would," he said.

Felicity looked up when the doors whooshed open, and Malcolm entered. But he wasn't alone. With him was the Suicide Squad, and her friends.

Lyla, Diggle…

…and Oliver.

"Now," said Damien. "Do as you're told — and unlock ORACLE. Or your friends will suffer for it."

* * *

Felicity gave her friends a quick and frantic once-over. Lyla and Diggle looked unharmed, but there was a dark stain on Oliver's shirt — high up on his back — which she saw when they forced him down the staircase. Blood.

She started to move, but Damien's arm caught her around the middle, as solid as a metal beam, and forced her into one of the chairs. Felicity couldn't rise, not from the strength of his arm keeping her down.

"What did you do?" she said, her voice rising. "Oliver, what did you do?"

Oliver jerked his head in denial, just as Malcolm answered for him. "Oliver happens to have a finicky relationship with the truth," he said laconically, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Not unlike yourself, actually."

Felicity wished, for probably the billionth time, that looks had the power to kill. Instead, she took in the not-quite-faded impressions around Malcolm's throat, the telltale hoarseness of his voice, and the fact that Oliver was the only one hurt out of her friends, suggesting that he'd done something to fight back.

"You tried to strangle him?" she said, a question directed at Oliver.

He nodded, and the corners of his mouth twitched. "The _fear of God_ part didn't take."

Felicity had to laugh, in spite of the circumstances. "It will," she said, leveling a hard stare at Malcolm Merlyn. "He's a very suggestible right-hand stooge."

Between them, Felicity was sure that they could make Malcolm roll over and play possum like the rodent he was. But trust her dad to ruin the moment.

Behind her, Damien sighed and reached for something. He produced a handgun from the folds of his coat and released the safety before resting it lightly in the curve of Felicity's neck. The atmosphere sharpened, every eye drawn to the barrel of the gun.

Felicity's deafening heartbeat drowned out the sounds of a struggle — her friends, Oliver, reacting to the gun pressed to her skin.

"Childish behavior, Felicity," Damien said, coldly. "Meryln's loyalties are immaterial to your acquiescence. Your attempt to distract me from my purpose is immature."

A part of Felicity dimly protested the illogicality of it. A father couldn't shoot his own daughter. As far gone as Damien was, he wouldn't kill her.

"You're right," he agreed, as if he could tell what she'd been thinking. "I wouldn't. Because I have need of you. But —"

The single word hovered between father and daughter, as material as a threat.

Damien turned the gun on her friends. "The same does not apply to _them_."

"Dad." Felicity was shaking her head. "I don't know how to unlock ORACLE. I don't have the password, I've tried — I've been trying — for weeks. I can't decrypt it."

Damien nodded to someone over Felicity's shoulder. "Bring her forward," he said, and Lyla landed hard on her knees, her hands thrown out to steady herself. As strong as she knew Lyla to be, handcuffed, helpless, surrounded by guns…it wasn't good.

Lyla looked her dead in the eye. "Felicity, don't —" she said, but Felicity jumped when Damien struck Lyla across the face.

"Don't touch her!" Diggle shouted, straining against the soldiers holding him in place.

"I'm fine, Johnny." Lyla's words sounded muffled. She turned her head and spat to the side, before lifting her head to Damien's gun again. "I've faced worse."

"This won't solve anything," Felicity said, holding out her hands as if she could placate Damien. "You know it, I know it. Amanda didn't want you to have ORACLE. She made it impossible to hack on purpose — she _never_ did anything without a purpose. Hurting my friends won't get you ORACLE. There's always another way."

For a second, Damien seemed to relent. His arm dropped to his side as he scanned the room around him.

"Thank you." Felicity was about to pass out from relief. "Thank you, dad —"

Right then, Damien pointed his gun at a blank-eyed agent and fired. He'd been standing by one of the computers, as inanimate as a puppet, but conscious or not, his head still whipped back from the force of the shot, a vivid dark spatter marking the screens behind his skull.

The overpowering tang of salted rust filled the room, and Felicity couldn't breathe. She managed to meet Oliver's stunned gaze for about a second, before Damien grabbed her injured arm and spun her around.

"This is a warning," he said, in her ear. "That I will _not_ hesitate to kill your friends if it means that you have the incentive to do as you're told. What you say about Amanda is true. She never acted without forethought. But I also know her better than you ever will, and I am certain that she would never have let something as important as ORACLE slip into oblivion. She made her choice, and I _know_ that choice was you."

Felicity started to shake her head. "I told you, I don't kn—"

She never got to finish her sentence, because Damien's hand was suddenly at the back of her skull, and before she could twist away, lights exploded across her vision from the impact of her forehead slamming into the table.

A shocked breath forced its way through her lips, stunned and dazed as she was. Dimly, she felt Damien's grip curling into her hair, and the next second, he'd yanked her back upright, forcing her to look at her friends.

"Is ORACLE really worth their lives, Felicity?" he asked. "Or do I need to kill one of them to help you make your choice?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damien's such a douche, isn't he? :D


	45. The Unthinkable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 8000-over words in 12 hours. This has to be some kind of new record.

Felicity's ears were ringing. The smell of blood was an invader, forcing its way into her senses and trying to shut them down. It was the science of bloodshed, it released something primal in the human body. It forced the body into a narrowed state of survival, into a state with only one goal in mind — to get out of the situation alive.

But Felicity resisted it. The force of the blow had opened a cut on her forehead, sharp and stinging, not at all helped by the fact that Damien's grip was yanking on her hair.

A dark red pool spread gradually beneath the ruins of a fallen agent's skull, as viscous as sludge, fresh and pungent. Lyla was on her knees, Diggle was still struggling to get free of the agents, to get to his wife and their unborn child she carried.

Oliver…

_Oliver._

He wanted to kill Damien. She could see it in his eyes. The raw danger of it snapped her wandering attention back into her body, and she felt every inch of her — bruised, bloodied, _whatever_ — crackle with pure, unadulterated defiance.

"If you wanted me to help you with your stupid computer," she croaked, "you really shouldn't have slammed my head into a table."

Damien thrust her away with a faint sound of derision, and she staggered, gripping the edge of the table to steady herself. Oliver had barely taken half a step before Malcolm blocked him, his sword raised in silent warning.

"As a father, I admire your tenacity." Damien was shaking his head as he paced. "But as a leader, I find myself growing impatient with your refusal to understand my purpose."

"I told you." Felicity wiped the blood off her face, leaving a smear of red down her temple. "I don't have a password. I don't have a key. I've tried everything I have — ORACLE is unhackable, because Amanda _wanted_ it to be."

"Amanda would never have destroyed an asset like ORACLE." The gun slammed into the table with a rigid _crack_ , and she jumped involuntarily at the sound. "Think, Felicity, _think_. Amanda gave you what you needed. You just — need — to — think."

"Darhk." Oliver spoke in a slow, measured voice. "Felicity's telling the truth. You know how Amanda died. She wouldn't have had the time to get the password to Felicity."

Lyla took his cue, using a voice Felicity associated with hostage negotiations. "ARGUS has decryption experts. I assume you've left them intact. We can have them working on the computer 24/7 — it doesn't have to be this way. You can still get what you want, and all of us walk away."

Damien's laugh was as sharp as a bark, utterly devoid of amusement. "You still don't understand, do you? There _is_ _no one else_. They will try, and fail, because the only people on this earth who could possibly unlock ORACLE are standing in this room. Myself —" He tapped the gun against his forehead, and swung it back to point at Felicity, "— and my daughter. She knows the answer — she just needs an incentive."

"You're not seeing clearly," Oliver said, stubbornly. Felicity widened her eyes in a silent warning for him to _not_ provoke the maniac with the gun, but he ignored her. "Amanda didn't _give_ Felicity the computer. It was a coincidence. Just —"

Irritation flickered across Damien's face. Suddenly, he was striding rapidly across the room, and before Felicity could stop him, Oliver was doubled over with her father's fist in his gut.

But he didn't make a sound.

"Oliver!"

Felicity rushed towards Oliver, partly out of instinct, partly because she was — terrified — of what her dad might do next. She was almost behind Damien when Malcolm tried to take her arm, but she whipped it from his grasp and rounded on him, every inch of her sparking like a live wire.

"Don't you _dare_ touch me," she snarled.

He didn't.

Damien forced Oliver's head back. "Now, Mr. Queen, this is a family matter, and you are all present as guests, incentives…if need be. So please," he said, with a patronizing smile. "Try not to interfere."

Her father thrust Oliver away from him with a contemptuous gesture, seemingly unaware — or unconcerned — that Felicity was behind him. Oliver was still on his feet in spite of the blow, but he'd taken an unsteady step back, and Felicity heard the shallowness of his breaths when she came close.

"Oliver," she whispered, taking his face in her hands. "Are you—?"

She trailed off, because Oliver lifted his head. The look in his eye — it belonged to a man who focused the pain of torture, threats, and fear, into dangerous rage. And it wasn't focused on her, but the man who was threatening their friends, the man driven crazy in pursuit of some high-handed vision of justice…another Ra's al Ghul, another Slade Wilson…another threat they had to take down.

It was a stupid question. Of course he wasn't all right. None of them were, and Felicity bit her lip at the complete awfulness of the situation, a situation she'd helped create.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, and for a moment, she wasn't sure _what_ she was sorry for — too much, and too many — just that she _was_. "I'm so sorry."

Oliver's expression softened with surprise, and Felicity felt him lean into her touch. The restraints around his hands were ugly things, but the brush of his fingertips on her throbbing forehead made her forget — just for a moment — where they were. Felicity closed her eyes, briefly, against the unrelenting demands of reality forcing its way back in. As if Oliver could sense it, as if he wanted to stop it too, she felt him tilt her face up with his hands, the softest touch despite the crudeness of the situation, and kissed her. It was as soft as a brush of wings, but no less deliberate. "Felicity," he murmured, and it was everything — no regrets, no resentment, no blame.

It was the kiss lovers expected to be their last.

Felicity wasn't going to let that happen, so she moved away first.

"I'm going to fix this," she insisted. "I will."

She turned back to her father, lifting her head to meet his gaze. "Don't — do — this. I will stay with you, and I will work with you. I will do whatever it takes to get what you want, if you let them go, right now."

Oliver's hand was tight around hers. "Felicity, don't." She turned, and their eyes met with a shiver of knowing.

_That's not the plan._

Her being taken was not the plan.

The silent argument blazed between them, a fierce second of clashing wills before Felicity jerked away, her fingers slipping out of his as she stepped forward.

 _Plans change_.

"Dad," she said, again. " _Please._ "

* * *

Felicity had been shaking, trembling when she kissed him, and Oliver still felt the imprint of it on his lips when her hand — so small — slipped from his grasp. Her shoulders were straight, each step unwavering, because she was choosing her father in the hope that her friends would walk out of the room alive.

It wasn't going to happen, not like that. Oliver loved Felicity, loved her more than he'd thought was ever possible for someone like him, loved her enough to know that every decision she took against her father would tear her apart.

He loved her enough to spare her that.

Three guards in the room, not including Malcolm, Damien, and the mute agents under HIVE's control. Deadshot and Cupid were a potential problem, but he was willing to bet that they were crudely programmed, at half — maybe less — of their usual strength. Suppressing free will meant slowing judgment, a trade-off Damien seemed to be forgetting.

Oliver turned his head and looked to Diggle. They'd fought side by side enough times to know each other's instincts, and they both knew — in an instant — what they had to do. Oliver flicked his eyes towards Malcolm, standing a narrow distance away from Diggle, and trusted his friend to understand.

Meanwhile, Lyla — attuned as ever to her husband — had sensed what was going on, and divided a wordless stare between them both. Very slightly, Oliver nodded, and all three of them turned away again, as if nothing had happened.

"Dad," Felicity repeated. " _Please_."

Damien's attention flicked unconcernedly past her to Malcolm. "Tell me, Mr. Merlyn — if you held all the pieces in one hand, would _you_ give them up?"

Malcolm turned his sword, catching the light in a cold glimmer of steel. "No," he answered. "That would be foolish."

"Exactly," said Damien, who paused, as if he was collecting himself. "No, quite literally, my daughter holds all of your lives in her hands."

Oliver sensed Damien's eyes sweeping the room, trying to decide which piece of leverage to use first. He should have looked away in submission, it was his best chance at not being chosen.

But Oliver wanted Damien to kill him.

At least, he wanted Damien to try.

Oliver lifted his head and stared unflinchingly back into Damien's cold eyes, eyes that — he now knew — were all the darkness that Felicity was not, and would never be.

It was like the crisp sound of a trap springing shut.

Damien gestured for one of the guards to bring Oliver forward.

" _No!_ "

Cupid was the one who took Felicity's arms, hauled her out of the way. Deadshot was at Oliver's back, close enough to Lyla that he trusted she knew what to do.

Deadshot shoved Oliver roughly to his knees. He grunted from the impact of steel on bone, even though his blood rushed loud in his ears from the knowledge of what he was about to do.

"Once more, Felicity," said Damien. "ORACLE — for your friends."

Felicity looked from her father to him. "Dad, please," she said, twisting against the restraining hands on her arms. "I don't know. Please!"

"Last words?" Damien asked, mockingly. The gun was still at his side.

Oliver needed him to come closer. When he was locked in a cell, Damien had called them all rabid dogs, and Oliver, on his knees, about to die…it was a picture Damien would revel in. There were two people Amanda Waller had personally trained in the room — Lyla Michaels, and Damien Darhk. But it was apparent to Oliver that only one of them had learned from her strengths…while the other had taken on her biggest failing in spades.

Pride.

"You haven't won," Oliver said. "We've faced threats like you before, and we've always come out stronger for it."

Damien smirked, and took a step closer. Just one more. "I doubt that," he said. "But speaking of the many things you've faced before, there is no Pit to save your life this time. Yours…will be a true death, I imagine. It is an honor…to be the one who finally grants it to you."

" _Oliver!_ " His name cut deeper this time, because he knew how afraid she was — for him. She'd seen him die once before, and for all she knew, it was about to happen again.

But he could only hope that it would turn out differently. That this time, there would be another way. Experience would help him fight, but her love would make him strong.

_Fearless._

"Felicity," Oliver said, as Damien took a final step closer to deliver the killing shot, "I'm sorry."

He launched himself at Damien, and the impact knocked them both to the ground. A gun went off as his friends took his actions as a cue to fight back…and they did.

* * *

Felicity didn't know how much of it was group telepathy, she didn't know how much of it had been concocted in the depths of an ARGUS prison cell. Based on their collective experiences, she guessed on the fly.

All she knew was that a second before, the room had been silent in anticipation of an execution, and now…engulfed in complete and utter chaos. Diggle tackled Malcolm and Lyla had done the same with Deadshot, coming up with a gun she used to shoot a few of the less dead-eyed ARGUS traitors in the leg or shoulder. Oliver was grappling with her father, doing surprisingly well for someone whose hands were cuffed together.

Cupid looked confused by the chaos (faulty programming, being mind-hijacked on the sly had its shortcomings) and for a second, her twist-hold on Felicity's arms slackened. Which was a pretty big mistake, even when all she had to deal with was someone possessing pitiable levels of hand-eye coordination.

But Felicity could do a surprising amount when she was jacked up on adrenaline and very, very angry.

There was a solid row of computers behind them, and Felicity shoved, sinking her elbows into Cupid's middle and forcing her backwards.

They crashed against the steel surface — hard — and Felicity struggled free. Brainwashed Cupid still had her weapons of (not quite) choice, and they spilled across the ground along with the two of them when they fell. Felicity struggled for balance, sharp edges poking her in the spine as Cupid advanced. Her hands slid across a sharp edge and bled, the slickness making it impossible to stand, and she groped behind her for something — _an arrow_.

Typical luck. Even against a Suicide Squad member, fate was still being a wad about her survival. She was on her hands, pretty much backed into a corner, and she came up instead with Cupid's bow, _sans_ arrows.

An unarmed Cupid was probably a match for Felicity, and she grabbed Felicity's ankle with surprising strength, yanking her across the ground — sharp objects and all — so that she'd be within reaching distance for a chokehold.

The bow was heavy in Felicity's hand. Cupid had _definitely_ upgraded since joining the Suicide Squad, since the make and model was something closer to what Oliver used on a daily basis (even the arrows weren't ridiculously heart-shaped anymore, but that didn't make them any easier to grab in a hurry).

Beggars couldn't be choosers, and the bow's solid weight made her forget that she wasn't holding a club.

Felicity skidded across the ground, twisting as she did, and the moment Cupid came within strangling distance, panic jerked her into motion and she swung. Dumb luck and destructive instincts played their role again, and the flat of the bow caught Cupid squarely in the forehead, knocking her into the table with a solid _thwack_.

"That did _not_ just happen," she muttered, staggering to her feet over Cupid's unconscious body.

A deafening crash reminded her where she was, and Felicity turned, just in time to see one of the screens crack from a glancing bullet. Oliver had Damien on the ground, his hands bent on keeping the gun pointed away from him. Their teeth were gritted in the struggle, eyes blazing with fury, and Felicity was reminded of another time — another desperate fight.

Oliver against Ra's, fighting against impossible odds, against a slim-to-none chance of winning. Unarmed and against a very loaded gun. Oliver was dangerously undeterred by the fact, and as she watched, he whirled — lithe as a jungle cat — and flipped Damien onto the ground.

The gun clattered out of Damien's grip and Oliver pinned his arm down with one knee, his pinioned hands clenched tight around her father's throat.

 _Her_ father.

Felicity had seen Oliver do it, armed and unarmed, with his bare hands or with his bow.

Oliver was going to kill Damien, and Felicity didn't know if she was going to let him.

* * *

There were many things Oliver had intended, from the instant that he'd discovered Damien Darhk was Felicity's father. He'd wanted to protect her, even though he knew that she was capable of protecting herself. He'd wanted to stop her from being hurt, because her father was one of the few things in the world that could well and truly wound her. He'd promised to support her, whatever she chose, whether it was to fight against her father or to try and find a middle ground.

Another way.

But Damien had taken it all, from the second he'd drawn a gun and threatened to shoot the people Felicity loved, all for a twisted legacy he and Amanda Waller had created.

Felicity had been forced to choose between two unthinkable options. ORACLE — and the deaths of innocent people, or watching her friends die in front of her.

Oliver knew she'd never forgive him for what he was about to do, but he loved her enough to do the unthinkable, to spare her from a choice she never should have had to make.

He'd done it before, choking a man to death with his bare hands. He was strong enough to do it, to stand the sight of the life ebbing all-too-slowly from his victim's eyes, the frantic rush of blood beneath the skin, racing against the encroaching death.

He was strong enough to kill Damien, and he was going to. This was a man who'd hurt his own daughter with precision, a man who would willingly murder to serve a twisted purpose, and it was a burden he wanted to bear, for her — whether she forgave him or not.

Damien choked for breath, his throat crushed between Oliver's hands. The blood had rushed into his head, and Oliver felt Damien's fist knock against his leg in a vain struggle.

"You weren't wrong," Oliver said, in a voice that only Damien would hear. "Maybe there _is_ a darkness inside of me. But if there is — I'll use it to protect her."

Oliver should have known. He'd been distracted, so caught by the repercussions of killing Felicity's father that he hadn't noticed. The hand beating against his leg, it'd been Damien's attempt to reach the gun — so close to their struggle.

He heard the click, and started to turn.

Too late.

The gunshot roared in his ears, along with the wave of bodily shock that came with being hit by a bullet, but all Oliver heard was Felicity's scream.

" _Oliver!_ "

* * *

Felicity didn't realize — even though she should have — how quickly things could turn against them in a fight. One moment, Lyla and Diggle had Malcolm Merlyn subdued, and Oliver had been close to killing her father…

The next?

Everything — wrong.

Unseen and unnoticed, Damien's hand had closed around the gun, and before Felicity could shout a warning, he'd turned it on Oliver and pulled the trigger, once — _twice_.

The first had missed Oliver's chest, narrowly, but the other had caught him in the forearm, near the elbow.

"Oliver!"

But he didn't seem to hear her. Despite the blood running down his arm, he redoubled his choking grip around Damien's throat, and Felicity knew that he was going to kill her father, even if it meant he'd die too.

Damien's face contorted with rage, and he fired, again. This time, the bullet went thickly into flesh, spraying them both with red. It was high up in the arm, near the shoulder, and the force of it made Oliver falter, long enough for Damien to lurch free. He kicked Oliver to his knees and grabbed his injured arm, twisting his thumb into the bleeding bullet wound.

Oliver never made a sound, but his whole body went rigid from the pain, the color drained from his face. They both were breathing hard, Damien's harsh with the _almost_ of an asphyxiation.

"Drop your weapons, or he dies!" he barked, and Felicity realized he was talking to her friends.

Diggle had Malcolm in a chokehold, as if to snap his neck, while Lyla had him subdued with an appropriated gun. They both looked uncertainly at Oliver, who shook his head. "Don't," he said. "Use Malcolm as a hostage — get Felicity, and get out of —"

He broke off when Damien dug into the bullet wound again, the air hissing through his teeth as he lurched forward.

"Drop your weapons!" Damien ordered.

No one moved. Felicity knew that she could make them go either way. She could make Diggle and Lyla let Malcolm go — which would save Oliver for a few moments, enough to say goodbye…

No… _no._

She could go with them, using Malcolm as a human shield, and leave Oliver behind to die. Also not an option.

She could try to put them back on course with the plan, the plan that would mean their friends coming to save them. But it needed ORACLE unlocked, and Felicity didn't know how.

_Think, Felicity, think._

Her brain had always been her greatest strength, her intelligence her most reliable (and sometimes _only_ ) weapon, and she needed it to save the lives of the people she loved.

An eerie calm had descended over Oliver's expression, and his spine straightened, ever so slightly. Like Amanda, when she'd been sure of death coming for her.

Damien had the gun trained on Oliver's forehead now, a gesture as deliberate as a countdown.

" _Felicity_ …" Diggle whispered, and it was the worst thing of all. He still trusted her, even though it was her fault that his best friend and brother in arms was about to die.

Too many things, rushing towards her, threatening to sweep her away in a panic. Felicity raced through everything she knew, everything she had — about ORACLE, about the woman instrumental to its existence. Amanda Waller.

What would Amanda have done?

Cisco — STAR Labs. Looking for a door when the only way in was a window. Bad metaphors were not helping.

Not meant to be hacked, because Felicity and her father were both hackers.

That was assuming that Amanda had never meant for ORACLE to be opened, but what if that assumption had been flawed to begin with? What if Amanda _wanted_ someone to unlock it, but wanted to insure against the wrong person doing it? Against a hacker of unparalleled ability — against someone like her father.

What if Felicity wasn't the one she was trying to keep out?

"Felicity," Oliver was looking at her now, and she stared back, her lips parted but utterly devoid of the words she wanted to say to him.

But Oliver knew.

"I love you," he said, and the corners of his eyes wrinkled in a smile that pierced her soul, because she couldn't lose him, not again.

"No," Felicity answered. " _No_."

Oliver faced her father's gun again, and Felicity wanted to scream.

_What do I do? What — what — what?_

_So what's the other way of getting into a computer that won't open? What kind of password_ can't _you hack?_

_She made her choice, and I know that choice was you._

_Amanda gave you what you needed._

_Not Damien._

_You, you, you._

— _Me._

"Wait. _Wait._ "

Felicity opened her eyes. "Dig, Lyla. Let Malcolm go," she said. "We can't win this."

Diggle looked incredulous. "Felicity, I know you," he said, in a voice unsteady with desperation, "I _know_ you're not telling us to let Oliver die."

Oliver was looking at Felicity with a guarded expression that said it all.

"I need you to trust me," Felicity said, breathlessly. "Because I know how to unlock ORACLE."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun, dun, DUUUUUUUN.
> 
> Side note: Holy eff how is the word count on Legacies 20K behind You're His Hope and I'm not even close to being done?! HOWWWWW.


	46. The Unhackable, Hacked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, nobody is more relieved that the 'Unhackable' frickin finally got hacked. I despise mysteries, even weak-ass ones I've written.

It was impossible to believe, how long it had taken Felicity to figure it out, How doggedly Felicity — and her father — had pursued the idea of a hack, a password meant to open this guarded secret.

When the answer had been staring her in the face the whole time.

The smell of blood was strong in the room, overpowering on the senses, as Felicity connected ORACLE to a simple addition.

A biometric scanner.

An unhackable password.

To a hacker like Damien, it would have been a needle in a haystack, the possibility of finding the exact person for whom the computer was meant to open. Amanda may have narrowed down the possibilities because of her knowledge of his daughter, but they'd both been so hardwired to expect a solution by hacking that it hadn't occurred to them at all.

It did now.

They'd linked ORACLE into the main computers, and Felicity stared at the word on the giant screen in front of them — the single word that had caused them all such _immeasurable_ amounts of pain — before laying her palm flat on the scanner.

There was no question of _do_ or _don't_ , because what choice did she have? Oliver was on his knees, about to die, and Felicity wasn't going to let that happen. Not again.

A blue light glided along the underside of her palm, and just like that — the word ORACLE dissolved into darkness.

Just…darkness.

But it was the darkness before a raised curtain, the pull of breath before the first spoken word, the moment of stillness before the fall.

"What is this?" Felicity asked, and the room — specifically, every computer — seemed to shiver at the sound of her voice, if that was even possible.

" _A positive identification is required before this system can be used_ ," said a flat, computerized voice. " _Please state your name._ "

Felicity's hand was still over her palpitating heart when she shot her father a glare. "You gave it a _voice_?" she said.

"An intelligent entity, remember?" Damien answered, the gun still very much pointed at Oliver, who looked just about as stunned as she was. "Now do as you're told — I should _hate_ to have to ask again."

Felicity turned back to the computer and said, in a clear voice, "Felicity Megan Smoak."

At first, nothing happened.

She should have guessed that even advanced artificial intelligent systems needed some time to buffer. Maybe her dad had given it an innate sense of drama.

Then —

" _Felicity Megan Smoak_ ," the computer repeated, and the black screens dissolved into _everything_.

Damien said that ORACLE was inquisitive, that nothing was unhackable, as far as it was concerned. He'd somehow managed to (for once) not lie, yet also undersell what ORACLE was capable of.

Because ORACLE was information…a lot of it.

The screens flooded with the sheer mass of it — text chaotically juxtaposed over more text, surveillance images overlaid with scratchy audio recordings that sounded like they'd been lifted straight from phone conversations, files indexed by names and places she'd never seen or heard of…

It was everything. It was a symphony of informational chaos, clash and complement, beautiful and terrifying to behold, and Felicity had no idea how Damien intended to rein it in, this impossible creation of his.

Thankfully, the computer resolved that question for them.

" _Welcome, Felicity Smoak,_ " it said. " _Oracle_."

* * *

"Oracle?" Felicity repeated. "It's a… _person_?"

"In a sense." Damien raised an eyebrow at Malcolm, who had her friends at the point of his sword. Diggle looked mutinous, but with Oliver at the other end of Damien's gun, it was hard to argue.

There was a small pool of blood beside his knee, from the wounds in his arm. He was bleeding and hurt, but not broken. Felicity met his gaze and felt the defiance of it strengthen her, the knowledge that he was so far from being beaten.

 _Just a little more_ , she thought. _Just a little._

"ORACLE was programmed to treat an individual — several, if need be — as its manipulator. It will heed any command, no matter the implication, as long as it originates from the Oracle herself." The last part was said with enough malice to give it a bite, but Felicity didn't flinch.

"I'm guessing Amanda _forgot_ to put you on that shortlist," she remarked.

"A rather spiteful twist on her part," he agreed. "Fortunately, that is a circumstance easily remedied."

He really didn't need to be more specific, what with the gun in her fiancé's face.

"I'm going to hurt you," Felicity said, flatly. It wasn't a question, it wasn't a promise, it wasn't even a threat. It was a simple statement of the obvious.

"I don't know how — yet, I don't even know when. But I'm going to hurt you, and you're going to experience a _wealth_ of pain when I do."

Damien tipped his head to the side. "Will you, now? Your own father?"

"John — Lyla — Roy — Oliver." Felicity counted them off on her fingers, never taking her eyes from her father's condescending gaze. "Last year, we faced a league of trained killers and fought a demon to save our city. Ra's al Ghul — _he_ was about as bad as we thought it could get, but you — _you_ — have somehow managed to outdo the homicidal assassin with the longevity complex. You have managed to piss off just about _every_ vigilante in this city, and so help me God, I will marshal the wealth of resources we have at our disposal and go to war with you and your friends at HIVE."

Felicity stared Damien down. There was blood crusted on her face, hurts on her skin, inflicted by _his_ hand, but they didn't make her weak, or frightened, or — as if that would ever happen — silent.

Because she was angry, and she was going to make sure he knew it.

"I don't care if you're my father — I don't care if you're _just like me_ , because you're not, and you'll never be. I have a soul, and I couldn't find yours even if I cared enough to try. Believe me when I say that I _will_ find a way out of this and come back with enough fight to make you regret everything you've ever done to hurt innocent people. We are not alone, we have more than a little experience with insurmountable odds, and we will take — you — down."

A silence followed her little fact-session, punctuated at last by Diggle's sarcasm.

"I'd listen to her, if I were you," Diggle said, as if Malcolm wasn't standing right there with a sword in his hand, as if Damien wasn't the big bad he was cracked up to be. "She doesn't usually make threats, but when she does, she makes good on them in a _big_ way."

Damien looked from Diggle to Felicity, amusement in his eye. "You know, I had hoped to spare you this. Friendships are such… _fragile_ things, after all. But I think this should serve as a warning, an adequate warning of who you are, Felicity, because like it or not, you _are_ my daughter."

"I'm nothing like you," she retorted. "Unless you haven't noticed, I was doing pretty well helping a city with my skill set — _not_ using them to stir up the forces of evil against innocent people."

Damien made a noise of dissent. "ORACLE may be my creation, but you were chosen to wield it for a reason."

"Because Amanda realized you were a psychopath too and wanted to make sure you never got your hands on the nuclear button," Felicity snapped.

"Perhaps." Damien's head was at a mocking angle. "But I have been controlling your lives…for longer than any of you could possibly understand."

Felicity narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Ask ORACLE about Andrew Diggle," said Damien. "Ask it how and why Mr. Diggle lost his brother to an assassin's bullet. Then — you will see."

Felicity met Diggle's surprised gaze. "Andy?" she said, and it was enough.

The system hummed, alive, and within seconds, Diggle's brother was onscreen — a full report, except…

Felicity realized that it wasn't just information about his brother's past, and his present. The more she read, she more she understood.

"Oh my God," she said. "Andy was —"

"— one of the first casualties of the Sentinel Initiative, I'm afraid." Damien's eyes crackled with cold malice. "Say what you will about not being anything like me, but what _was_ the expression…ah." He divided his gloating scrutiny between a shocked Diggle and an even more shocked Felicity. " _The sins of the father_ …" he mused. "Let's see if your friends truly believe in that, because _I_ was the one who ordered the assassination of Andrew Diggle."

* * *

Deadshot had been hired by HIVE. They'd known that.

He'd shot and killed Andy, Diggle's older brother. They'd known that too.

The _why_ of it…had always eluded them. HIVE kept its secrets close, and Diggle's investigation had always run cold.

Not anymore.

In no uncertain terms was the reason why Andy had been targeted and killed. He'd been a threat to HIVE's twisted vision of the world.

"It was an earlier version of ORACLE, of course," Damien continued, smoothly. "The Sentinel Initiative was barely a concept, and a predictive system like ORACLE had yet to be attached to a defensive program like the surveillance ships. But it had just been fine-tuned, and I was of course keen to test my work. Targets of a higher public profile would have been problematic, so I opted to begin with someone…small. Insignificant, as one might say."

"You're insane," Lyla said, reading the screen in disbelief. "John's brother, and you — you just —"

"He wasn't _just_ Mr. Diggle's brother." Damien inclined his head, a correction. "Or he wouldn't be, anyway. As you can see, based on his record, his connections through his work as a bodyguard, and his political leanings, ORACLE predicted that he might come to be a prominent senator. Popular, based on personality traits and background. An avid proponent of surveillance laws, regulating the watchers, as one might say. He might have gone on to oppose covert government agencies and advanced security measures." Damien waved his hand. "He had to be terminated. Back then, we were limited to assassinations, made to look like accidents…or misfires." They all tensed, because — like Diggle — they'd been led to assume that Andy had been killed by accident. "But we _did_ reach our targets, one way or another."

"You were afraid," Oliver said, quietly. "And you killed an innocent man."

" _Cautious_ , Mr. Queen." Damien gave him a hard look. "A man like Andrew Diggle would have caused us quite some trouble if allowed to continue unchecked. It had to be done."

"No — it didn't." Diggle's voice was low, and for a second, Felicity mistakenly thought he was fighting to keep his self-control.

Turned out — he'd already lost it.

"You say that your computer is meant to protect the world, you say that you're trying to keep people safe, but you looked at a man like my brother — along with God knows how many others — and condemned him to die." Diggle raised his head, and his eyes were crackling with rage. "You took my brother from his family because he might do some good in the world — the kind of good you _claim_ to be interested in doing. You called us the criminals, but you're no better, Darhk. I see you for who you are — you're not Felicity's father, you're not the coward who walked out on his family — you're a madman who needs to be put down. HIVE is a poison, and I don't care what I have to do, but I will _tear_ it down, brick by brick…starting with you."

"You _are_ bold, Mr. Diggle," said Damien. "But foolish. Why all of you insist on making threats you have no way of carrying out — I'll never understand. Andrew Diggle would have put lives at risk with his opposition of necessary secrets. Organizations like ARGUS — ARGUS as it should have been — and HIVE…we take on the burdens of ordinary man, so that they might close their eyes at night without seeing the blood and filth we plunge our hands into…for them." A knowing gleam, because they'd started the crusade at some point or another keeping secrets from the people they loved, lying to protect them.

"Necessary secrets," Felicity repeated. "I'm sorry, dad. But if that's the kind of secrets you're keeping…maybe it's time we did things differently."

The lights blinked, like the power grid had experienced an unexpected surge. Felicity recognized the cue, along with the realization the keyboard beneath her hands was growing hotter from some kind of strain.

The source of which was due to a certain something she'd uploaded into the laptop, to be released if and when ORACLE was finally unlocked. It had taken a little longer than she'd expected (ARGUS computers were _slightly_ more difficult to hack than bank systems and public works), but judging from the flickering of the electricals…it was going on quite nicely.

The side of Felicity's foot nudged Cupid's fallen bow, and the quiver of arrows. She turned, silently, and caught Oliver's eye.

He nodded.

The lights were beginning to short out now, the visuals on the numerous screens fraying from the interference.

Damien pushed Felicity aside. The gun was still on Oliver, but his focus was on the monitors. "What is this?" he said, as Felicity backed away, in preparation of the fallout.

"Well," she replied, "it's a little something I created, called the Brother Eye virus, and right now? It's infecting _the hell_ out of your systems."

There was an ominous groan from the walls as the computer-controlled environmental systems inside the ARGUS mainframe began to malfunction, and Felicity crouched, closing her hand around Cupid's bow and arrows.

"Guys?" she said. " _Now_."

The lights shorted out for real, and with a delicate splinter of glass, the computers exploded in her father's face, plunging them all into pitch darkness. Then — _then_ —

All hell broke loose.

* * *

Oliver threw himself to the side as soon as the lights went off, and sure enough, Damien's gun roared above his head — a shot that should have killed him.

"Oliver!" Felicity stumbled right into him, all hands and knees in the confusion.

Gritting his teeth against the pain in his arm, Oliver hauled her up with him and backed them both towards the staircase, trusting Lyla and Diggle's instincts as soldiers to mean that they'd memorized the layout of the room too.

They had to get out — and fast.

As unlikely as it seemed, Malcolm was the real threat in the situation. Their shared training in the League meant that they were unlikely to be disoriented by darkness, and the lights going out was unlikely to confuse Malcolm for long.

They stumbled clear of the staircase and followed the sound of the doors, which were opening and closing uncontrollably from the malfunction caused by Felicity's computer virus. Oliver tensed when the door suddenly jammed — something bulky blocking it from sliding closed again — but it was only Diggle.

"Lyla?" Oliver said.

"Here." She was at his elbow, and from the sound of it, she had a gun.

They were halfway through the door when Felicity silently pressed something into his hand, and it was only when Oliver heard the whistle of flying metal behind him did he realize what she'd given him.

It was a bow.

Oliver ducked aside, and a sword — Malcolm's sword — embedded itself in the wall beside his head.

"Smoke and mirrors, Oliver."

Malcolm's voice drifted mockingly from the gloom, a foul promise of a reckoning long overdue.

* * *

Running through the corridors of a hostile building? Bad idea.

Doing it while the lights were out? Worst plan ever.

But it was _their_ plan and it was the only one they had.

Lyla knew the building better than anyone, and she'd taken the lead, taking them swiftly through the hallways while Diggle helped look-out-for-slash-incapacitate anybody in their way. So far, it was a ghost town. If Felicity had to guess, her dad's mind control chips were somehow hooked up to the main computers and were currently experiencing temporary outage due to a certain pesky virus.

Score.

"Are you sure they're coming?" Lyla asked, as they ducked through another malfunctioning door.

"The virus sent out a signal the second it activated," Felicity said, shaking the Smartwatch out of reflex. "They should be on their way."

Glass shattered somewhere down the corridor.

"And if they don't make it in time?" Diggle asked, as the unmistakable sounds of pursuit echoed behind them.

Oliver's hand left a dark streak down the wall when he stumbled. Diggle caught him before he crashed face-first into the ground, but Felicity stepped in before he could take on Oliver's weight.

"I'll do it," she said, ducking under Oliver's arm. "You've got better aim than I do."

Oliver shifted restlessly, and Felicity felt a fresh pulse of warm blood down her back from his bullet wounds. "I can —"

" _No_ ," they said, simultaneously.

Diggle steadied Oliver's weight against Felicity. "Are you sure?" he said, before letting go.

Felicity nodded. "Positive."

There was an unmistakable edginess to their interactions, the specter of Damien Darhk lingering between them. Her father had killed Diggle's brother. Whether Felicity had anything to do with it or not, that was going to change things.

Diggle nodded back. They'd talk about it at some point. Just not now.

They made it to the end of the curved hallway when Lyla swore, slamming her palm into the stairwell door. "It's jammed," she said, in frustration. "The system didn't short it out."

"Can we shoot out the lock?" Diggle asked.

Lyla jerked her head and gestured at the doorframe. "Ricochet. A bullet could kill us."

Felicity made an involuntary noise of surprise when Oliver twisted abruptly and fired down the hallway. An agent landed hard with an arrow in his leg, the first in the probable army of pursuing enemies.

"We're trapped," he said, with his usual optimism, and winced as he slid a fresh arrow into his bow. Felicity didn't let go of him — she was so sure he'd fall if she did.

"Felicity," said Diggle, "was there a backup plan if the team didn't make it on time?"

The Smartwatch beeped — a proximity alert. She checked the screen and let out an unsteady breath along the lines of _oh-thank-God-some-good-luck-at-last._ "Well," she said, in a voice higher than what it usually was, "I got some insurance."

"Define _insurance_ ," said Lyla, already braced in a defensive position, her gun ready to fire.

Felicity turned towards the wall of windows at their side. "The atomic kind," she said, as a streak of bright blue cut through the night sky. " _Get down!_ "

They all hit the ground, just before an explosion blasted through the glass.

* * *

Felicity's hands were clenched in Oliver's shirt, because she'd yanked him down hard to avoid the imploding windows. Chips of broken glass hit the ground _plink-plink_ when Felicity lifted her head, squinting against the glare to see a lone figure standing in the middle of the corridor, his arm glowing electric blue.

"Hey guys," said Ray, his face glowing beneath the visor on his — actually _working_ — suit. "Am I late?"

"Never thought I'd say this," said Diggle, getting to his feet with a grunt, "but I'm glad to see you, Palmer."

Lyla gave Ray a cautiously optimistic once-over. "This is him?" she said, in a voice that suggested nothing could really surprise her anymore.

Felicity brushed glass from Oliver's shoulders and head, feeling his temperature in the meantime. Hot as a tailpipe. Not good. "Ray — any chance you brought the cavalry with you? Or some form of airborne transportation big enough for the five of us?"

"Six, actually," he corrected. "And counting. Technically speaking, it's —"

"— _Ray_ ," said Oliver.

"Right — they're on their way. I just got a little head start, but —" A bullet pinged off Ray's armor and disappeared out the gaping window frames.

Diggle and Lyla both shot simultaneously, catching two different agents on opposite ends of the hallway. "Whoa," said Ray. "You guys are — like — crazy in sync. Is that a training thing or a couple thing?"

Neither of them bothered dignifying that with a response. "Incoming," said Diggle. "I'm not sure how your laser things work, but are they gonna be enough to stop a dozen different guns at the same time?"

"Scientifically? No. Realistically? Also no." Ray laughed nervously, keying something into the controller on his arm. "Which is why I'm really hoping your friend Barry has any grasp on the concept of _timing_ , because we could really use him right about —"

"Barry!" Felicity said, as a red-gold comet zig-zagged its way through Starling City and — seemingly undeterred by the vertical nature of the structure in his way — headed straight… _up_.

She blinked, and suddenly the enemy agents at the end of the hallway were in various states of incapacitation, either tied up or out cold, and Barry was standing right beside Ray, like he'd been there all along.

"For the record," he said, "I gave you — like — a ten-minute head start."

"Nice save, Allen." Ray grinned and held up his (armored) hand. "High five."

Cue metallic _thonk._

" _Ow_ ," Barry groaned, clutching his fingers. "What is that — solid steel?"

"Actually, it's a reinforced carbon fiber —"

"Barry. Ray," Felicity said, pointedly. "Maybe a dead-end hallway in a thirty-story building is _not_ where you break out the superhero shop talk."

"Right, right." Barry got a good look at Oliver and blanched. "Whoa, Oliver — are you all right?"

Oliver exhaled, loudly. "We can talk about the bullet in my shoulder later. Do you have a way out of this?"

Barry nodded. "Rooftop. ETA two minutes."

"That suit can blast through a door, right?" said Lyla, eyeing the lasers on Ray's ATOM gear.

"Hold up — I can top that." Barry walked up to the door and laid his palms flat on the surface. "Stand back," he said, as his hands began to vibrate.

* * *

The icy night wind made Oliver's lungs ache. He emerged onto the windswept rooftop with Felicity and the others, most of them exhausted past the point of what they thought possible.

"Almost there," she said, holding onto him tight. "Just a little further, okay?"

Oliver nodded, even though every movement jarred the bullet in his arm. It cost him strength he didn't have, and whether he'd intended to or not, he was saving it to face Malcolm.

Barry waved his arms over his head to signal the incoming plane, and Oliver gave Felicity a gentle push. He just needed a minute, and he didn't want to worry her.

"Go," he said, sinking onto one knee. "Signal them."

Felicity laid her hand at the back of his neck and looked seriously into his eyes. "Hey," she whispered. "I'm your fiancée, so if you're bleeding out, you're legally obligated to tell me."

Oliver shook his head. "I can manage," he said. "Just —"

There was a flicker of movement behind him, the stairwell door swinging clear. Oliver shoved Felicity behind him and swung his bow on instinct.

It crashed against Malcolm's sword, and Oliver used both hands to force him back, ignoring the fresh rush of blood from his open wound.

"Points for trying, Oliver," said Malcolm, his eyes flashing with triumph. "But you've spent years training to bring a bow to a sword fight. You're going to have to do better than that."

* * *

Of course Felicity wasn't going to run. She did stay a distance away, stubbornly refusing to get nearer to their escape route. If Oliver was irritated — tough. He'd have to survive to get angry with her, and with a bullet wound like that, she could take him, easily.

Unfortunately, the same seemed to be true of Malcolm.

"Oliver!" Felicity shouted, as the plane swung around, hovering just off the ledge of the ARGUS building. "We have to go!"

Whether Oliver heard her, she wasn't sure. Malcolm's sword was nothing more than a blur and flash of deadly steel, and Felicity was afraid — so afraid for Oliver. At this point, she wasn't sure whether Malcolm was the one stubbornly keeping Oliver from leaving, or Oliver was the one being pigheadedly man-like, needing a _win_ before he could call it a day.

Either way, she wasn't going to leave them to sort it out.

"Felicity!" A pair of arms closed suddenly around her, and Felicity felt her feet — her whole body, actually — leave the rooftop completely.

Ray's suit was airborne for about three seconds before they crash-landed into the plane, rolling to a stop in the middle of the steel floor. Even though the inside of her head seemed to be rattling, Felicity struggled clumsily to her feet. "Oliver — where —?"

A flash of lightning, and Oliver was on the floor of the plane, his eyes closed and unresponsive. The front of Barry's suit was shiny with blood, and for a moment — Felicity thought the worst, the absolute worst, had happened.

"He's just unconscious," Barry reassured her. "Super-villain guy didn't stick him with the sword, I swear. Speaking of which — should we do something about the cavalry on that rooftop?" His eyes widened. "Is that a _bazooka_?"

"Got it!" Cisco shouted. "But I'm gonna need a little bit of help if they start firing RPGs!"

"I can help with that."

Felicity's head snapped up in surprise. After the mind-warp that had been the last twenty-four hours, she was starting to forget what was real, and for a moment, it was a completely new voice to her. Well, not exactly new, but unheard for so long that Felicity had been conditioned to stop expecting it.

It was a habit she'd be happy to kick.

Sara was standing on the bay doors, a contrast of silver and black, shades of metal and shadow. Very, _very_ much alive. She stared fiercely at the assembling enemies on the rooftop, and Felicity's heart leapt from the knowledge that their friend was back on their side.

So naturally, she said the only thing that came to mind.

"Give 'em hell," Felicity said, and the hesitation vanished from Sara's face with the smallest of smiles.

"Just like old times," she answered.

Then she opened her mouth and screamed, unleashing the full force of her power onto the people who'd forced them onto her. It was the unforgiving cry of an avenging harpy, the unrelenting blast of rage given solid force, and not even the likes of Malcolm could withstand it.

If there was any glass left on the ARGUS building after Sara had gone full-power, Felicity would be very surprised. But Cisco closed the bay doors before she could see, and the engine roar arced into a shrill crescendo when they went full throttle — out of Starling City and to somewhere safe.

_Ish._

After a hug from Thea that almost knocked her flat, Felicity slumped against the wall and smiled up at her friends. "Could not…be more proud," she said, holding onto Roy's hand because — well — he wasn't exactly stopping her.

"I think we just set a new record for all-star team ups," Roy said, looking from her to Diggle. "That's four masks and a whole lot of heroes."

On the opposite side of the plane, Diggle managed to wheeze out a laugh, and Lyla leaned her head on his shoulder with a tired smile. They had little Sara between them, who was probably confused about the goings-on that necessitated a military jet and a vigilante team of babysitters.

They'd explain it to her, one day.

Felicity shifted Oliver's head onto her lap as Caitlin worked to stop the bleeding on him, while Sara — Recently-Alive-Again Sara — crouched beside them, light-footed as a cat.

"Hey," Felicity said, before she could forget. "I am so — totally — completely — _bonkers_ glad that you're alive. Welcome home."

After a moment's hesitation, Sara slipped the mask from her face and took Felicity's hands in hers. "Good to be home," she said, and it was the real Sara, unmasked, who smiled at her. But it was more hesitant, more fragile than Felicity remembered — and she was so, so sorry for it.

Sara had always been intuitive, and maybe she sensed it now, because she gave Felicity's hand a firm, reassuring pat. "But not for long," she said, lightly. "I saw your flight plan. Are you serious about that one?"

Felicity squeezed Sara's hand apologetically. "It's…just about the only place where no one wants to kill us. I'm sorry, I _really_ should have earmarked a deserted island for retreat purposes, but my island-finding skills are a little useless without this one." She gestured at an unconscious Oliver.

Sara shook her head. "We all need to rest, and get off the grid. It's the perfect place for that."

"Uh — sorry to interrupt." Ray held up his hand, the visor swinging from it like a basket. "A little confused here. I thought the place on the flight plan was a code word, or something. What's Nanda Parbat?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I notice that the biometrics thing is a little bit lame, but I thought it was a good idea at the time.
> 
> \- A few shoutouts -
> 
> Wonderwall, WaitandHope, Kismet, Statsgirl (and the amazeballs kind people on the forum) — you guys are awesome. YOU GOT THE PARALLELS. *tears up* To be fair though, I'm not entirely sure the law school thing has any bearing on whether I write or not, given how much I updated when I was supposed to be studying for finals =_=
> 
> Anyways, you guys are amazing *hugs*
> 
> \- Finally - 
> 
> OKAY. They're going to Nanda Parbat now, so STOP ASKING ME ABOUT NYSSA or I'll crash their plane into the Atlantic Ocean (you know who you are *stares hard*). 
> 
> Jk, I love you guys for caring about Nyssara. XO


	47. Who We Become

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry about the late-ish update. Had to do a major rewrite of some stuff in the chapter.

Felicity's buried her face in little Sara's curls and tried to think happy thoughts while her recently-resurrected namesake picked glass chips out of Lyla's hands.

"Sorry," said Sara, tapping the forceps against a tray to dislodge the fragment stuck to the metal. "I know I'm not exactly qualified to do this."

Lyla shook her head with a surprisingly placid expression. "I once had shrapnel dug out of me by a member of my unit who'd only gone to one year of vet school," she said, reassuringly. "You're doing fine."

"Well, I didn't go to vet school." Sara glanced at Felicity, who was using little Sara as a semi-shield against the general sight of pointy objects and blood. "But I _have_ stitched up a few of my friends."

The healed gunshot wound in Felicity's shoulder tingled in remembrance of Sara's emergency expertise, accompanied by a bout of lightheadedness that went hand in hand with the thought of a suturing needle. Felicity made a face and bounced little Sara up and down on her knee. "Steady hands," she repeated, like a mantra. "Steady hands — oh good, you're stitching her up now."

Lyla and Sara shared a look of amusement.

"Come on, Felicity, you've been with Ollie for — what — three, four years and you're still not used to needles?" Sara said.

Felicity glanced over her shoulder. The cargo hold of the plane had become something of an emergency medical bay, and the reason why Sara was the one treating Lyla's hands was because Caitlin was currently occupied with digging the bullet out of Oliver's arm — some twenty feet behind them.

From what she could tell, Diggle was holding Oliver's shoulders to keep him still, while Caitlin — her hands thankfully shielded from view — worked to extract the bullet.

Felicity's head snapped back around before she could reach the nausea phase. "Are all of you spinning?" she said, faintly.

Thankfully, Lyla changed the subject. "I never did get to say this," she remarked, "but we named our Sara after you. John had lost a comrade and a friend, and it seemed like the right way to honor your memory."

Sara went still for a moment, before continuing as if nothing had happened. "John's a good friend," she said, her focus on the needle as it pulled smoothly through Lyla's skin. "And I'm honored that you thought of me, but I'm not sure I deserve it — especially not after what I've become."

There was no bitterness in her tone, just a bland statement of the truth. Felicity and Lyla exchanged looks over Sara's head.

"You're back now, Sara," Felicity said, gently. "That's all the matters to us. You're still our friend."

Sara snipped the thread and began to bandage Lyla's hands. "The rest aren't deep, but I'd ask Dr. Snow to take a second look — I'm not exactly the expert here." She finished her work and got to her feet with a brittle smile. "I'm sorry," she said, and it had an air of finality about it.

Felicity reached for her. "Sara —"

But she'd already gone, soundless steps, vanishing through the doors. Felicity turned back to Lyla with a twisted knot in the pit of her stomach.

"Give her time," Lyla said, sensing what Felicity was thinking. "If she's anything like Oliver, surrounding herself with the guilt of what she's done is her way of coping. All we can do right now is make sure she doesn't drown."

"My dad did this to her," Felicity said. She looked up at Lyla and saw no lies in her expression — that had never been her style. "And she remembers it — she remembers everything."

Lyla nodded. "It's not a mercy that she does."

Felicity set little Sara on the ground and watched her toddle back into her mother's embrace. Her arms shivered in the absence of a child's warmth, and Felicity gathered her knees close to her chest, resting her chin on her legs. "I have a lot to apologize for."

"Felicity, Darhk's your father, but it doesn't mean you take on his sins," Lyla said, evenly. That's not the way it works."

"Is that what John thinks?" Felicity asked, bluntly. "About Andy? Because he hasn't looked me in the eye since we got on the plane, and I don't expect him to."

Lyla took Felicity's hand. "Hey. Listen to me — Johnny could never hate you. Trust me on this, I know him better than anyone. He loved his brother, and losing him…it's the loss that defines him today. Finding out why he died…it was always going to take some time to process. You need to talk to him, just like Oliver needs to talk to Sara."

Felicity opened her mouth to question it, but Lyla stopped her. "I'm trained to see people for who they are, and I know all of you — how you work together as a team, how you are as friends. Johnny listens to you, and I know that you value his judgment. If the two of you keep being at odds, the whole team is going to fracture, and we can't have that if we're going up against Damien Darhk. Oliver needs to talk to Sara because they're similar enough for him to get through to her, and at this point, she'll only listen to someone who's seen as much darkness as she has — anyone else will just remind her of how far she thinks she's fallen."

It floored her, how Lyla said all this without malice, just a calm assessment of the situation, born of her (surprisingly accurate) understanding of their strengths and shortcomings.

"I need to talk to John," Felicity repeated.

"You do." Lyla made a gesture with her chin. "Go."

* * *

The bullet rattled around in the metal dish, streaked with clotted blood and still warm from his flesh.

"Souvenir?" Diggle said, while Thea made a face of disgust.

Oliver shot him a look as he pulled a shirt over his head, grunting involuntarily when it passed over the thick layer of bandages around his arm. "I think the scar's enough of a memento, but you can keep it if you want," he said, dryly.

"Toss it symbolically into the ocean — that's what I'd do." Roy glanced around at the windows. "Those don't open, do they?"

Thea gave Roy a hard poke and reached for Oliver's hand. "Hey," she said, softly. "I'm glad you're safe."

Oliver smiled, and ruffled her hair out of habit. His hand lingered, and it brought him back to a time when Thea was small enough to carry on his back, not the willowy — and strong — young woman that she was today. It was hard to believe that a year ago, his instinct had still been to keep her safe and away from the truth.

Maybe it still was, but he'd been proven wrong tonight.

"I'm so proud of you," he said, and turned to Roy as well. "The both of you. The four of us wouldn't be here if you hadn't gotten us out."

"Well, Supersuit and the Lightning Bolt had something to do with it too," Thea said lightly, linking hands with Roy. They smiled at each other, a private moment of shared pride, and Oliver was again reassured that his sister was — and would be — all right.

"You came through for us," Diggle added. "We were the ones who needed saving tonight, and you had our backs — to the end."

Oliver nodded in agreement, because it was true. Roy looked them both unwaveringly in the eye. "You'd do the same for us, and you have. You've saved my life more times than I can count. Tonight was just my way of returning the favor."

There were many things Oliver could have said, but he settled for the one that Roy deserved. Unconsciously or not, he'd always seen Roy as an apprentice, more of a student sometimes than an equal. Maybe it was still true, but tonight Roy — along with everyone — had shown that they were something else.

Partners, and equals.

"Thank you," Oliver said, and held out his hand to Roy.

Diggle watched them grasp hands with an expression of amusement. "I think we're all getting dangerously close to hug territory, so maybe we should call it a night. It's a long flight to Nanda Parbat, even if we're not in handcuffs like the last time."

Oliver huffed a laugh, reminded of their last ARGUS-enforced retreat from Nanda Parbat. "No, it's not."

"Besides, it's not as if you'll be hugging anyone anytime soon," Roy commented. "Not with that arm. I can't believe Felicity's dad shot you."

"I had my hands around his throat," Oliver said, flatly. "And I was careless — I should have realized he had a gun."

"Yeah, well, I would have traded places with you if it meant I got to choke the life out of that bastard," Diggle said, with uncharacteristic venom. "Gunshot wound or not, I —"

"John," Oliver said, quietly.

They all fell silent, because Felicity was standing behind them.

* * *

Felicity didn't realize what the team had been talking about until she was already behind them, and it startled her like a whipcrack, to hear Diggle — who was usually the voice of reason against rage — wish that he'd had the chance to kill her father.

They were all quiet now, and Felicity felt their eyes on her. Roy, Thea, Diggle…and Oliver. She gave a faint shake of her head, as if to remind herself why she was here.

"It's okay," she said, and she meant it. "We need to talk — me and Dig."

Diggle didn't move, not as the others did. Felicity smiled faintly at Thea and Roy, and tilted her head up when Oliver — the last to go — gently pressed a kiss to the side of her head. His touch lingered, but he knew from the silent fights between him and Diggle, the snippy verbal disagreements between him and Felicity, that it was a matter for the two of them to settle. Whatever the behind-the-scenes meddling, it always came down to two.

Then he was gone, Lyla and little Sara bringing up the rear, and it was just Felicity and Diggle in the cargo hold. The engine noise seemed unnaturally loud to her ears, but maybe it was because neither of them were speaking.

This was uncharted territory. As far as Felicity remembered, the fire-starter in the group had always been Oliver. Diggle and Felicity (depending on who Oliver had a difference of opinion with) were the mediators. They'd never been like this.

It was a whole lot of awkward, with a tiny dash of _tragic_.

"I kinda wish we'd had more fights now," she admitted, because the easiest thing to start with had always been the truth. "I'm not really sure what to say — which is unheard of — for me, but…"

Diggle was leaning against the wall, looking at the ground instead of her, but she saw him nod in agreement. "Usually this is where one of us says that Oliver's sorry for whatever he's done."

"Or you call me out for playing relationship counselor," Felicity added. "I know the dance. Which is pretty much _the_ only dance I know. Besides the _please-don't-go_ and the _you're-being-an-idiot_ , I mean. But I never break those out on you."

Diggle coughed, and she could have sworn it was a laugh, hastily converted post-production. It made Felicity hopeful. If Diggle could laugh at her word vomits, maybe there was a chance things might go back to normal. Or to _some_ semblance of normalcy, anyway.

"Emotionally guarded, self-sacrificing, tunnel vision…we know how to deal with," he said, leaning his head against the wall and staring at the ceiling. "Not a homicidal parent who made the call to assassinate my brother."

Felicity winced, like the words were a blade that zipped past her cheek. But Diggle deserved that, knowing what they all did. Andy had been murdered, no question about that. Worse still was the fact that Diggle had unknowingly been working alongside the daughter of the man who'd done it, and the truth that Andy Diggle hadn't been killed for anything he'd already done, but the promise of what he was likely to do. In the distant future, he would have done some good in the world — and a computer-generated prediction had been enough for her father to pass a death sentence. To end him…before he'd even begun.

"I know an _I'm sorry_ is going to sound completely inadequate, but I am." Felicity clasped her hands so tightly together that the bones felt like they were about to splinter. "I'm so sorry, John, for what my dad did. He murdered your brother. It may not have been him pulling the trigger, but what he did…it was unforgivable. Andy didn't deserve it, and neither do you."

Diggle's arms were folded in front of him, and it made him look intimidating rather than reassuringly on her side. The guarded blankness of his expression didn't help much either, and Felicity's words were suddenly spilling out of her in a rush.

"If you never wanted to speak to me again, I'd understand. If you want me to leave the team, I will." Felicity lifted her shoulders, awkwardly chafing her hands. "I mean — it's not as if we haven't tried that. It's do-able, and I completely owe you that, because there's nothing I can do to change the fact that my dad killed your brother. But I need you to stay, for now. Because…because of my dad."

Felicity realized what a paradox it was, but the truth was the truth. They were all stronger as a team, the three of them especially, and even if Diggle hated her, she knew that the only shot they had of beating her dad — without even _mentioning_ the rest of HIVE — was them, together.

Regardless, they still had Oliver. The last connecting thread between a splintered friendship, the reason why they'd even met in the first place.

So Felicity tried again. "I know you care about Oliver, I know you think of him as a brother. Tonight, when my dad had him at gunpoint, I made a promise. I promised that I'd go to war with my dad, and HIVE. But I'm not Oliver, I'm not stubborn enough to think I can do this alone, so please, even if you hate me, just work… _near_ me for a little while longer. As soon as my dad's out of the picture, as soon as his plan goes up in smoke _,_ I'll bow out, I _swear_." Felicity swallowed, the inside of her mouth as dry as sawdust. "Please, John. Just one last fight."

Still Diggle didn't say anything, and Felicity wished he'd shout — yell — scream and point. Do… _something_.

"Okay," she said, nodding. "Okay. I'll let you get some rest, and —"

"Felicity," Diggle said, abruptly. She turned, and saw that he was finally looking at her.

But his expression confused her, because it was regret, and an utter lack of hate. "I told you before that there was no force in the world that could make you a bad person," he said, and for a second, Felicity glimpsed a little of his usual self.

But she tensed, knowing the blow that was about to come. _I was wrong — because you are._

Diggle took a deep breath, and blew it all out in a heavy sigh. "There still isn't," he finished.

Her lips parted in surprise. "But John —"

"I'm sorry for saying what I said in front of you. I shouldn't have done that. Darhk may be a monster, but he's your father and going against him…well, I can't pretend to understand what that's like. He almost killed Oliver tonight, and he hurt you like it was nothing." Diggle tapped his forehead, mirroring the fresh cut on Felicity's forehead. It was shallow, but that didn't mean the reason behind it hurt any less.

"What he did to Andy…it's not on you, and I promise that I'll never hold that over your head. We're still a team, Felicity — you, me, and Oliver — and we always will be. I'll do whatever it takes to stop your father, _but_ …"

Felicity's eyes darted across Diggle's face at the last part, the implicit promise behind the word.

"But?" she said, in a voice that — despite her expectations — didn't quaver.

"But I hope you'll understand that if push comes to shove, and I get a shot — I can't promise that your dad is going to walk out alive." Diggle held up his hands, as if he was expecting her to protest. "I don't expect you to support my choice, but I want you to understand why I'm making it. He took a part of me when he killed my brother, Felicity, and he's a threat to my whole family. I protect my own, and his plan succeeding means that my wife, my daughter — nobody in the world will be safe from him. I can't let that happen. I can't think of them dying like Andy, or anyone else. So if there's a chance, an opening —" Diggle straightened his shoulders, staring her right in the eye. No evasions, no lies.

"—I'm going to take it. Can you accept that?"

After a beat, Felicity nodded. "You do what you have to, but all I have to say is — line forms behind me."

Diggle looked surprised, and honestly — so was she. The threat she'd made to Damien's face, it was a promise to take him down, but they were talking about ending his life. Her own father's life.

The words hovered in the whirring air, like they were waiting for her to take them back.

She wouldn't.

There was an unthinkable sacrifice coming, and even if Felicity understood Diggle's vendetta — his right to get even — revenge was an ugly thing. If she could spare one of her closest friends that taint, that guilt…

Diggle took a step forward and hugged her, without question, without a word. His hugs had always been a comfort, and reminded her that — for a long time, at least — Diggle had been the closest thing to family she'd had in Starling City. Felicity closed her eyes and hugged him back, breathing a sigh of relief that after everything, they still had their friendship.

"Let's worry about stopping Darhk first," he said, his chin resting at the top of her head. "We'll talk about the rest later."

"You mean — do I have a brilliant plan?" Felicity mumbled. "No. Between you and me, I'm still trying to figure out how we beat Ra's al Ghul the last time."

Diggle's laugh made Felicity smile. "You know how," he said.

"An army of highly trained assassins and a speedster?"

He shook his head. "Together. We're building a legacy of heroes here, Felicity. It's past time we remembered that."

* * *

"Sending the network request to the TCP port, _and_ —"

The toy ball left little Sara's tiny fist and rolled under Barry's seat. Felicity laughed and scooped little Sara up in her arms while Diggle and Lyla watched, the both of them smiling at their child. "You just got through a secure FTP firewall, you genius girl."

"Yeah, I don't think she knows what that is, Felicity," said Barry, hunting beneath his chair for the toy. "What happened to choo-choo trains and — like — _normal_ kid stuff?"

Diggle nudged it out from under the seat and rolled it back to Felicity. "Says the human lightning bolt," he said, exchanging a look with Felicity, who winked and put the ball back in little Sara's hands.

Oliver observed his friends from across the cabin. He honestly couldn't remember a time when Felicity and Diggle had ever been at odds. The divisions had always been his fault in some way, and it was a discomfiting feeling, knowing that he couldn't do anything about it.

But whatever Felicity had said to Diggle, and vice versa, all seemed well again.

"She's sweet," Sara said, and Oliver turned. He hadn't heard her come up behind him.

"She is," he agreed, watching as she sank into the seat opposite him. "How are you?"

Sara passed her hand absently across her throat, more habit than conscious thought, and smiled at him without answering the question. "The last time we talked, you told me you were working through a few things. I'm glad you worked through those issues," she said, and cocked her head in the birdlike way he remembered, a sign that she was about to tease him. "You and Felicity finally got together."

Oliver laughed softly, because it had slipped his mind completely to tell Sara. Being with Felicity had become so instinctive that it was just a given to him.

"I should have told you," he admitted, inclining his head. "I'm sorry I didn't."

Sara stretched her legs with a sigh. "I know you better than you think I do, Ollie. You didn't need to."

They shared a smile, one born of a common history and partnership, surprisingly unchanged even after a long absence.

"The kid from Central City really likes you," she said, glancing over her shoulder. "I didn't think you were the type to buddy up with rookies, but you've got some billionaire in a fancy suit, Speedy over there, and his partners. You even brought Thea in. It's like you're building a league of your own."

Oliver leaned his chin on his hand. "Someone once told me…that I needed to let others help me for a change," he said. "So I did."

Sara's expression shifted. "I'm fine, Ollie. I don't need help."

"You're as stubborn as Laurel."

"You think I don't know that? My sister put on a mask and got herself onto Darhk's list. I _know_ , Ollie." Sara's voice bristled with concealed anger. "I know what the Lance sisters do best. They make each other's mistakes until _bad_ becomes _worse_ , but I'm sure I don't need to tell you that. You were one of them."

Oliver was silent, but Sara's face immediately fell. "I'm sorry — that was uncalled for."

He shook his head, because he didn't need an apology. He knew Sara well enough to understand that lashing out was an instinctive response to her family being at risk — something they had in common.

"Laurel has her own mask now," he said, slowly. "I tried to stop her, but you know Laurel — we both do. She's never listened to us — or anyone — when innocent lives are at risk." Oliver lowered his voice. "She wanted to honor you, Sara, honor the work you did…before you died."

Sara leaned her head back against the seat and her pale eyes followed the flickering motion of the clouds, passing like ghosts beyond the glass. "To _honor_ a fallen friend, a fallen sister," she repeated, her words slow and careful. "I'm not sure I deserve that. The Sara Lance who fell to her death from that rooftop — she might have. But not me."

Oliver leaned forward. "You can't believe that."

Sara looked him in the eye. "I do," she said, with complete conviction. "And you know why. The last time I died, I thought I'd lost all the soul I could spare. I thought the League of Assassins had taken all the humanity from me, and I had nothing to lose."

Sara touched her stomach, as though she was remembering the three arrows and the fall that killed her. "I didn't know that I had anything else to lose, but when Darhk brought me back…it turned out I did, and I lost that too."

"You were under Darhk's control," Oliver said, immediately. "You were under his control, and whatever you did, nobody could blame you for that."

Sara jerked her head in a denial. "What they put me under, the thing inside my head…it didn't take away my memories. I was _there_ , I was watching myself do all those things, and even though now I can tell myself to walk where I want, and to say what I want, to not hurt the people I love — I still know. I still remember everything that I did, for HIVE, during those two years." She took a deep, steadying breath. "I did terrible things. I killed people, _good_ people. I once chose death over the League because my soul couldn't take the killing, and when I died, at least that was the end of it." She shut her eyes in a grimace. "But then they brought me back — to do the exact same thing I couldn't take anymore, and I butchered what was left of my soul in my second life."

"That's not true." Oliver reached out to his friend, because all he could see was her drowning by choice, in the same guilt he'd lost himself in, countless times before. The only way he knew to escape the waters, to remind himself of who he was — Felicity. Someone who could see the light in him when everything seemed lost to the darkness.

Nyssa had loved Sara in a way Oliver understood, acutely and emphatically. She'd loved in a way that was simultaneously sword and shield, pain and deliverance, sin and redemption. She'd done great things in Sara's memory — deposing her father and rebuilding Nanda Parbat — but she'd also suffered immeasurable pain at her loss.

If the depth of Nyssa's feelings was anything like Sara's, Oliver knew what the touchstone to her soul would be.

"You have a soul. Nyssa saw it, and she — she _loved_ you, Sara." Oliver held her gaze, refusing to look away until she acknowledged it. "She still does."

"She loved Ta-er al-Sahfer," Sara corrected, with a shiver of regret, as if the name was a tangible loss she mourned. "You have a good heart, Ollie, and I love you for thinking that I can be saved, but there's no coming back from this. I'm broken, and if you want the truth, I'm scared that when I see Nyssa again…that's all I'll be. I'm not Ta-er al-Sahfer anymore, I'm not Sara Lance, I'm not…anyone. And when she sees me, I'll be a reminder of who she lost, and she'll hate me for it."

"Sara, if you really believed that you didn't have a soul, you wouldn't have saved our lives tonight, and you wouldn't have told me the things you just did. Being human…it means you feel pain, but having a soul is what makes you feel the guilt, because in your heart, you are a _good_ person and it hurts you to see innocent people suffer," Oliver said, steadily. "You once told me that we're not our masks, and that we need people in our lives who don't wear one. Nyssa loved you as Ta-er al-Sahfer, she loved you as Sara Lance, she loved — _you_. She'll love you again. When I was in the League, I saw her fight a war against her own father for what he did to you, I watched her tear his darkness down, brick by brick, and rebuild something you would have been proud of. She saw the light in your soul, Sara, even in the darkness, and she'll see it when you face her again. Even if you're not Ta-er al-Sahfer anymore, even if you're not Sara Lance, even if you're not the Canary, you've become someone else. You've become…something else. Darhk tried to break you, but all he did was make you stronger. You're different now, but that doesn't mean you're broken."

Sara ducked her head, and when she lifted it again, her eyes were bright with tears.

"If I'm not Ta-er al-Sahfer, I'm not Sara Lance, and I'm not the Canary…how will I know who I've become?" she asked, hoarsely.

"I can't answer that for you." Oliver stood up, and held out his hand. "But you're not alone, Sara. There are people in your life who will always be here waiting for you, and they'll be there for you, every step of the way. You just have to let them."

Sara wiped the backs of her hands across her cheeks and stood with him. "I'm scared, Ollie," she whispered.

"Don't be," he said, as her hand slipped into his. "You're home now."

Their friends were all gathered in a circle, watching little Sara climb over Barry's shoulders, yanking on tufts of his hair with concentrated dexterity, the toy ball all but forgotten on the floor. "Wassat?" she kept repeating, as she tugged on Barry's hair.

"I mean — it's no problem," said Barry, his arms out by his sides like he was an immobile tree. "If she pulls out my hair it'll probably just grow back in like… _ten_ minutes. Believe me, Cisco's tried."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that, Barry," Diggle said, reassuringly. "I think that means she likes you."

Felicity looked up at their approach, her hands paused mid-clap, laughter in her eyes. Oliver knew he was holding Sara's hand, knew how it might look to her, and he was sorry for it. But she took in the sight of them both, all without a word, and smiled.

"There you are," she said. "You're missing the fun."

" _Fun_ being very, very subjectively defined," Barry added.

Felicity tipped her head to the side and gave Lyla a look, who nodded. "Johnny," she murmured, with a smile.

Diggle got to his feet and walked over to Barry and little Sara. "There we go, sweetie." He scooped up his daughter and hoisted her onto his shoulders. "Mommy and Daddy want you to meet someone very special."

Sara almost shrank back when Diggle approached them, carrying his daughter. She swallowed, the muscles in her throat working as she fought to overcome her instinct — the instinct that she was meant to be alone, that she didn't deserve the people in her life.

"You're home now, Sara," Oliver repeated, one last time, before he let her go.

Felicity was sitting cross-legged on the floor, and looked over her shoulder when Oliver crouched behind her. Careless of the throb in his injured arm, he wrapped his arms around her and leaned his head against hers, inhaling her scent in its soothing familiarity.

"What's this for?" she asked. "Did Caitlin give you one of those aspirins?"

"No," he whispered, and pressed a kiss into her shoulder. "Thank you, Felicity."

He could sense the curiosity in her touch, but she stroked his forearm as they watched Sara take her namesake in her arms.

"Okay?" Diggle asked, before removing his hand from around little Sara's middle.

Sara nodded, and her arms curled awkwardly around Diggle's daughter — lacking her usual grace. Oliver knew it immediately, the first awkward moments of holding a child in her arms, trying to orientate limbs and balance around this delicate, trusting creature.

Even Sara's expression, intent with earnest concentration, as she stared at the child, like she didn't dare to move.

The whole room seemed to be holding its breath.

Then little Sara laughed, and grasped at the gold curls framing Sara's face. Innocently stubborn, she pulled Sara's face down to hers and gave her the softest kiss on the chin. It was more of a bump than a kiss, as clumsy as Sara's first attempt at holding her. Sara's eyes widened, and a surprised laugh escaped her lips, making little Sara laugh too.

A child was pure, free of the sin Sara thought had tainted her forever, and being accepted by it — by her — was the sweetest reassurance in the world. That she wasn't too far gone. That there was still hope.

" _Hi,_ " she whispered, rocking little Sara gently in her arms. "Sara."

"She'll be all right," Felicity said, softly.

Oliver nodded, and held her closer still. "She will. There's always hope."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, emotional trauma and fix-its. Seriously, Arrow characters need to be happier in season 4 or I'll cough up a lung. Emotional trauma is exhausting to write. Also, it's super hard when two characters are named Sara. Just saying.


	48. Welcome Home

The last thing Felicity remembered was resolving _not_ to go to sleep, because the subconscious was a fickle thing (insert bad word here), and at its most predictable following events of a traumatic nature.

Her dad nearly shooting her fiancé in the head, admitting he'd killed the brother of one of her closest friends, _and_ putting an unknown number of innocent people under mind control definitely went under that umbrella.

But she started awake, completely without warning, in an airplane seat, with the searing glare of the sun in her eyes.

"Frack," she muttered, covering her face with her only free hand (Caitlin had insisted on wrapping her other arm back up in a sling, double frack).

"Sun's rising," Oliver said.

He was sitting across from her, their ankles just about touching, looking for all intents and purposes like he hadn't slept a wink.

Felicity stretched her legs so the joints cricked at the knee, before subsiding back into her seat with a sigh. "Did you sleep?" she asked.

"When we first got on the plane."

Felicity was torn between an urge to laugh and to flick him somewhere in exasperation. "It is _adorable_ how you confuse involuntary unconsciousness and being asleep," she said, sarcastically. "Hint: one is a thing normal people do when they get tired, and the other one is what inhumanly stubborn vigilantes try to call _getting some rest_."

Oliver looked away from the window. "No," he said, with a small smile. "I didn't sleep."

It was a peaceful silence, just their breathing and the steady whine of the plane's engines. Felicity found herself watching Oliver from her seat. He'd leaned his head against the wall, gazing out the window. His skin was gilded by the sun's blaze, the shifting tints of gold-and-fire lightening the shadows in his blue eyes.

She could have watched him forever, as at peace as they could be — given the circumstances.

_The circumstances._

Not yet, not yet.

To stave off thoughts about what they couldn't fix, Felicity shut her eyes and tried to imagine that she was a cat, sunning itself on the sidewalk. "I don't think I've ever seen a sunrise before," she mumbled. "I could get used to this."

"You don't realize how much you miss being in the sunlight until it's gone," Oliver said, absently. Being upfront about his feelings had never been a strength of his, and neither was talking about the years he'd been gone from Starling.

But every now and then, Felicity had to remind herself that things had changed. The number of times Oliver had told her that he loved her, the fears and hopes they'd both shared, and now — the sudden frankness that told her what he'd been thinking about.

Oliver Queen, craving the sunlight.

Felicity felt the ache, somewhere inside her chest, because it was the furthest thing from what they could have right now. Starling City had just been told that Oliver Queen was the first and only suspect in the search for the Arrow's identity, while she and Diggle had been pinned as accomplices.

Unless they escaped, far, far away — Starling City and sunlight were nothing short of impossible.

Felicity took a deep breath, feeling the peace quaver, so close to breaking. But she had to.

"We need to talk," she said. "About what happened."

Oliver's eyes were on her now, steady, and waiting.

"My evil psycho dad almost shot you in the head, and I was just entrusted with an artificially intelligent privacy-violating piece of software." Felicity felt her hands twist, her fingers straining in knots. "And we're going to Nanda Parbat. We probably need to discuss that."

Oliver inhaled, nodding as he shifted in his seat. "I'm sorry," he said, without preamble, without justifications. "I tried to kill him — I meant to."

"I know," Felicity answered. The immediacy of her response surprised her, even though it shouldn't have, given her earlier discussion with Diggle.

A discussion Oliver knew nothing about.

"Things weren't right between me and Diggle," she began, trying (and failing) not to avert her eyes. She squinted against the sun's glare, her mind working to form the words. "I mean, how could they be? My dad killed his brother."

Oliver opened his mouth, about to interrupt with some comfort, she guessed. But Felicity shook her head to stop him.

"We're fine now, I think. But I made some promises tonight — a lot of promises, actually — and I intend to keep them."

"Felicity…" The pain in Oliver's voice wrenched her gaze back towards him. "What did you do?"

"He almost killed you, Oliver." Felicity felt her anger rise, even at the memory of Oliver on his knees, the gun inches away from his head. "My dad would have killed you, so _don't_. Please — don't — tell me I should be holding back."

Oliver leaned forward, but he kept his hands on his knees, careful not to touch her. Felicity wouldn't have wanted him to anyway, not when they were disagreeing like this.

"There's more than one way, Felicity. You showed me that," he said, firmly. "What makes you think there isn't another way when it comes to Damien?"

"Because I've gone over it in my head, again and again, and all I see is you — bleeding, on your knees, with my dad pointing a gun in your face. It's in my dreams, because I'm afraid — so afraid — that he's going to kill you, and it'll be my fault, because I should have stopped him."

"He's your _father_."

"And I'm his daughter," she snapped, pulling back her hair to show him the cut on her forehead. "This is what he did to me."

Oliver fell silent.

"I promised that I would take my father down — one way or another. I promised Diggle that if he has a shot — he can take it. But I also promised that if there's going to be blood — I want it to be on my hands."

Felicity paused, because the words had weight, especially the ones she'd just said. She let them sink in, growing stronger from every second they remained unchallenged.

"You understand sacrifices," she continued. "What it means to do the unthinkable for the people you love. Last year, you gave yourself up to the League for Thea, and all of us. Last night, you tried to kill Damien for my sake, and I love you all the more for it. Now it's my turn. I owe everyone that."

Oliver was quiet for what seemed like a long time, his clear blue eyes searching her face, studying her, as if he was learning her for the first time. Felicity stared back, letting him see her. Not who she'd become, but the person she'd always been, in her heart.

Someone who'd protect the people she loved, whatever it took.

They had that in common, after all.

"He'll hurt you," he said, finally.

"He can't," she promised, with a smile full of steel. "We're too alike for that."

" _Felicity_." Oliver went on his knees in front of her, and she felt him take her hand in his. It was a gesture that was almost pleading, like he was about to make one last attempt.

"Once you let the darkness inside, it never comes out," he said, his gaze unwavering. "You have always been a pure heart, Felicity, and I know you too well to ask you not to do this. But — I know what darkness looks like, and right now you're struggling in a darkness of your own. Ra's al Ghul put me in a pit and made me think that the only way to protect the people I loved was by serving him, and losing myself to the League. But you found me, you followed me into Nanda Parbat, and you showed me that there was another way."

Oliver pressed his lips to the back of her hand. "There's always another way," he said. "Damien threatening the people you love is what's stopping you from seeing that right now. I can't ask you not to do this, and I will love you — no matter what you decide. But you're smarter than him, you're stronger than him…and I believe in you."

_Do you understand?_

Felicity reached for Oliver, and her hand silently traced its way down the side of his face, along the line of his throat, until it came to rest above his heart.

"The day when Oliver Queen is the one giving me advice," she deadpanned. "The world must be ending."

Oliver's expression stayed serious. "Promise me you'll think about it."

Felicity nodded, feeling the strong, steady beat of his heart beneath her palm. Something to fight for, someone to protect. "I promise," she said, as the sun blazed on strong.

There was a crackle over the plane's PA system.

"Thank you for flying Valdez Airways and we hope you've enjoyed your flight," said Cisco. "But wakey-wakey, because we're about to make a highly unauthorized landing in Nanda Parbat."

They turned to look at each other, just before the plane gave a disturbing lurch.

"Oh frack," Felicity muttered.

* * *

The bay doors lowered with a mechanical crank, releasing a blast of dry wind into the cargo hold. Felicity threw up her arm on instinct, shielding her face from the dust.

 _That_ , she remembered.

"This is Nanda Parbat?" Caitlin said, queasily.

To be entirely fair, Felicity wasn't feeling all that hot herself, given the highly uneven landing they'd just taken.

"Yup," she said, resisting the urge to ralph in front of company. "We should get going."

"Uh…where?" Barry asked, scanning the horizon.

"Wasn't there a village the last time we were here?" Roy said, peering out into the dusty landscape. Apart from a scrubby stretch of dried grass, the tiny village nestled at the foot of the mountain was nowhere to be seen.

They were in some kind of valley, surrounded on all sides by elevated ground that pretty much blocked any kind of view of the mountains.

Felicity flexed her fingers and went to work on her brand-new tablet computer. She'd been away from a keyboard — even a technically nonexistent one — for _way_ too long.

"Nyssa only gave me the coordinates," she said, hacking into a satellite — not ARGUS's, too risky — to get them a look at the surrounding area. "I'm guessing she put us a little further away from the village, just in case we squashed it on landing."

" _Rude_ ," Cisco protested. "My landing was fine."

"Sure it was, buddy," said Barry, nursing a bruise on the side of his chin from a bumpy touchdown.

"Maybe Barry could run ahead," Caitlin suggested. "He can cover more area in a —"

"— _flash_ ," said Cisco, grinning.

"I could do that," Barry answered. "Is there a secret assassin handshake I should use? Like to let them know I'm not a threat?"

"Not really," Sara said, leaning against the side of the exit. "We just take our knives out and throw them at each other. You're supposed to catch them with your bare hands."

"Or I could fly," Ray interjected. "Might be easier to scout the city from above."

Oliver shook his head. "Malcolm nearly took out your suit with one arrow. They'll shoot at you — no questions asked."

"Yeah, but from an increased altitude —"

"—guys." Felicity held up her computer. "While I'm just _dying_ to stay out here in the balmy weather, I'm picking up a structure beyond that ridge."

"We should start moving then," said Sara, stepping off the plane. Her boots raised a puff of dust where they landed, her eyes already scanning the terrain ahead of them.

Maybe it was just her, but the difference in heights between where they'd landed and the furthest ridge made Felicity feel like they were being watched.

"Anyone else _not_ ready for a wilderness trek?" Cisco asked. "No? Just me? Okay."

* * *

"In hindsight," Felicity said, "I really should have — looked into — renting horses. Or goats. Or — whatever they use here."

Oliver switched his bow to his other hand and turned back to help Felicity across a tricky cluster of rocks. The others were a short distance behind, including Sara. She should have been the first to move ahead, but he sensed her reluctance, as if she was postponing the inevitable moment of truth — seeing Nyssa al Ghul again.

"So — Nanda Parbat." Felicity sounded out of breath as they stood together, waiting for the rest to catch up. "How are we feeling about that?"

Oliver frowned, caught off guard. "You're asking me that now?"

Felicity gestured at him from head to toe without looking up from the ground, nearly doubled over trying to catch her breath. "I'm well aware of the inappropriate timing, thank you. But given the whole dad-killing discussion, it seemed like a good idea to cover all our bases — as far as awkward conversations are concerned, anyway." She lifted her head and adjusted her glasses. "So are you? Are you okay?"

For a moment, Oliver felt acutely every scar on his body, especially the ones attributed to his time in Nanda Parbat. He saw the sparring arena and the unfriendly faces of the assassins who looked on him as an outsider, even as he bled onto the sand in service of the Demon. He saw the fall, into the dark pit that had shown him his fears. He heard the disembodied, hateful whispers of the ghosts he'd wronged, and the choked, last breaths of a death he feared the most.

But then he remembered the reassurance of having Felicity's hand in his, as they stood together at the edge of the pit. He saw the underground city that was no more, and knew that this time, things would be very different. Because Felicity had changed _everything_.

He looked at her under the sunlight, and gently brushed a loose curl behind her ear. "I honestly don't know," he said, his hand lingering on her cheek. "The last time I went to Nanda Parbat, I thought I'd never see the people I loved again."

"But you did," she reminded him. "And despite your best efforts, things have changed. You beat Ra's, and you're not alone." She tipped her head to the side, the faintest of smiles lifting the corners of her mouth. "Are you?"

Oliver nodded. "I'm not," he agreed. "But Felicity, you —"

She knew him too well, and she'd guessed what he'd been about to say, to drive the point home.

"Oliver, I _promised_ I'd think about it, okay?" she said, fiercely. "But you killed Ra's — and I helped you. Sometimes that's the only way."

It was a lost cause, Oliver knew, to argue with Felicity when she'd decided on a course of action, especially if it involved the people she loved. The only thing he could do was to make sure he was with her, every step of the way.

And one last thing.

With Slade, the only path he'd thought open to him was killing the madman who murdered his mother. With Ra's, the only way he'd thought he could beat him was by sacrificing Oliver Queen, to become the Arrow — and only the Arrow — in order to defeat the threat to his city.

If Ra's al Ghul was the darkness that almost swallowed his soul, Damien Darhk was the taint that threatened to darken Felicity's light. Ra's had twisted Oliver's beliefs and poisoned him with doubt, and in many ways, Damien's warped attempts to make Felicity choose his brand of dark justice was no different.

There would be a reckoning, between Felicity and her father — Oliver didn't doubt that. There was a chance it might come down to an unthinkable sacrifice, and he hoped to God it wouldn't happen. But the only thing he could do, besides staying by her side, was to remind her — just as surely as she had reminded him — that he knew exactly who she was.

"You are nothing like Damien Darhk," he said, firmly. "You are not your father, you are not who he thinks you are, and I _know_ that you can stop him — but as yourself, as Felicity Smoak. Do you understand?"

Felicity silently took his hand and laced her fingers with his. She pressed her lips to their clasped hands, saying nothing, because there was nothing that needed to be said.

She knew.

Oliver sensed movement in his peripheral vision and swung on instinct. His bow struck something mid-flight — ending it with a single, crisp snap and a burst of sparks.

As they watched, the remains of a broken arrowhead landed in the dusty ground at their feet.

Oliver thrust Felicity behind him as black-clad figures appeared at the edges of the valley, the sunlight glinting off their drawn weapons. He realized now why they'd been directed to land where they had. The downward slope of the terrain was perfect for it.

An ambush.

* * *

This was _not_ the friendly reunion she'd been expecting. Then again, the last time the League had seen an ARGUS plane, it had coincided with a drone strike that nearly destroyed their home.

They really should have considered the goats.

"Nyssa knew we were coming," Felicity said, sharp with disbelief. "Why—?"

A lone figure emerged from the cloaked assassins, a distinctive sash of dark red crossing her robes. Oliver lowered his bow as the hooded assassin approached them, moving soundlessly across the rough ground.

Felicity instinctively tightened her grip around Oliver's arm, even though she recognized the armor.

" _Oliver Queen._ "

The voice was like silk, with only the faintest tremor to suggest a suppressed fire.

"Nyssa," Oliver began. "We —"

She struck him across the face before he could finish, a single blow that nearly sent him sprawling. Felicity crouched beside Oliver to check that he was all right, glaring up at Nyssa — whose hood had been swept back by the force of her punch.

"What the hell?" she shouted, even though talking back to the head of a secret assassin's club probably wasn't the brightest idea in the galaxy. "Did you have a stroke?"

"Be silent," Nyssa hissed, turning the sole focus of her inexplicable fury back onto Oliver. "How dare you tell such a lie? How dare you try to deceive me? After I released you from your oath to the League, how dare you — claiming that Ta-er al-Sahfer still lives!"

Oliver wiped the blood from his lips. "It's true," he said. "Sara's alive."

"You _lie_ ," she snarled. Her black eyes flashed dangerously, and suddenly her hand was on the hilt of her sword — not good, _very_ not good sign.

Felicity raised her hands in front of her. "Nyssa, we're telling the truth, Sara —"

"— Sara's body lies buried in Starling, and I should kill you where you stand for daring to —"

What she said next was drowned out by a shriek that shook the ground in its ferocity, a single, piercing note that faded as soon as it had begun. Felicity lifted her head, her ears ringing from the Canary Cry, unleashed in a moment of desperation.

" _Nyssa!_ "

They all froze, Nyssa included, at the sound of Sara's voice. It was cracked and harsh with emotion, but it was the depth of raw feeling — impossible to fake — that stopped Nyssa from drawing her sword.

Sara stepped out from their group of friends, with eyes only for Nyssa as she closed the distance between them. Without her wig and mask, her hair was the color of sunlight, wheat fields and tall golden grass, her skin pale except for the flush rising in her freckled cheeks.

She looked _alive_ , even surrounded by the desolate landscape of an abandoned world.

Even to an old lover, expecting her to be dead.

Felicity felt the magnetic pull between the two opposites, light and dark, jet and honey. But Sara stopped, just a few feet away from Nyssa, as if the last few steps weren't her choice to make.

"It's me," she said, her voice husky. "It's not a lie."

Nyssa's dark curls spilled across her shoulders when she shook her head, slowly. "It's not possible," she breathed. "Ta-er al-Sahfer —"

"—may not be the person you see standing in front of you." Sara's hands were loose and open by her sides. "I died — and I'm different because of it." She touched her throat, and Nyssa's eyes widened as she realized where the scream had come from.

"I'm not the woman you remember, not completely. But I do know two things — two things that won't change. I know that I'm not afraid, not anymore —"

She took a deep breath, her shoulders straight and proud, and Felicity suddenly saw Oliver, standing in the depths of an ARGUS bunker, in what seemed like another life, telling her — earnestly and without fear —

— that he loved her.

"— and that I still love you," Sara finished. "Can you accept that? Can you accept who I've become?"

For a long instant, everything seemed to have ground to a halt, suspended in the space between breaths.

Then Nyssa's cloak swirled around her as she made her choice, not backwards and away, but forward — to the person she'd loved with all of her heart, a person she loved still.

Sara had always been small, and her head dipped back when Nyssa pulled her close. An impulsive gesture, followed by a moment of delicate stillness. The brittle glint in her expression gradually faded as she ran her hand down the length of Sara's bright hair, and cupped Sara's cheek as if to reassure herself again that a living pulse beat beneath her skin.

Their fingers drew apart and then together, and Nyssa stared at Sara's palm, at a scar, a single faded line that Felicity had never noticed before. But a wordless gasp escaped Nyssa, as if she'd recognized it, and her head darted up, her eyes searching Sara's face.

"It's you," she whispered, and it was like the hardened shell around Nyssa's wounded heart splintered, and finally — _finally_ — fell away.

Nyssa's face broke into the warmest, most genuine smile Felicity had ever seen, because despite all odds, despite all the impossibilities, her dream was standing right in front of her again.

" _Yes_ ," she said, and Sara's smile grew to match her own.

Their foreheads brushed, breaths whispering across skin, the seamless falling-into-place of everything that was meant to be, until at last, their smiling mouths met.

It was a kiss full of yearning and joy, loss and love, a fearless proclamation to the League that the beloved of Nyssa al Ghul had returned, to a city built in her memory.

"Welcome home," Nyssa whispered. "Welcome home, Sara."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cannot wait to imagine a rebuilt Nanda Parbat. Personally, I like the whole monastery-on-a-remote-mountainside thing, but sound off in the comments if you have ideas. I'm interested to know which version of NP people actually like.
> 
> As you can CLEARLY see, contrary to popular belief, I did NOT crash their jet into the ocean. The jet just got all feels-y because resurrections + almost-dying always bring out the feels.
> 
> Felicity and Oliver are in tricky territory here, we'll see how that plays out. I know there's support for Felicity killing Damien herself, and in all honesty I'm not too decided about that issue quite yet.
> 
> GUESS WHO GOT THE BIGGEST WTF PLOT TWIST IDEA LAST NIGHT WHEN SHE WAS TRYING TO SLEEP?! *points at self* But rest assured, it shall not come up for a good few chapters. The team needs some peace and quiet for a while. Besides, it's totally just an idea. Might not even go there, because trust me, it's INSANE.
> 
> Hopefully, to the nice (and I'm not being sarcastic here) readers who have steadfastly been requesting a Nyssara reunion, this paid off. If not - whoops. But I watched so many amazing Nyssara videos and honestly some of them made me cry. (Just a few: "Sara & Nyssa | I Don't Belong", "Nyssa & Sara | Remembrance [TAAC]", "beloved | sara + nyssa [TAAC]", and basically all their scenes, because they're such an amazing pairing who deserved better.)
> 
> Also, I'm in New York next week on vacation and if that means I can't update as much, I'm sorry in advance. But not too sorry, since I'm going to the Avengers exhibit thingy in Times Square and shall be on the active lookout for Stephen Amell (unless he's not filming in New York anymore, in which case - BALLS). Oh, and food. So much food.
> 
> Until the next update, cheers!


	49. Nanda Parbat, Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Back from vacation, didn't write a sentence while I was away, so that explains the late update. NYC was a blast, customs at JFK was easily the worst thing in the world, and sadly, did not get to see the Captain. Ah, well. I did, however, see an incredibly bad actor playing the Phantom moonwalk away from Christine on Broadway, so I guess that's pretty funny.
> 
> Cheers!

Oliver tasted blood in his mouth from Nyssa's blow, but he stayed where he was, watching Nyssa come to terms with the impossible standing right before her eyes. Her head was glossy and dark, completely opposite to the Sara's bright curls — yet there was something utterly right about them standing together.

Seeing Nyssa's smile, her closed eyes as she leaned her forehead against Sara's — like all that mattered was the microcosm of time and space they shared together — Oliver was reminded of the first time he'd kissed Felicity in the hospital corridor, how he'd held her face in his hands and breathed her in, shutting everything out until he had to — _had to_ — let go.

He remembered the raw fury of a devastated Nyssa al Ghul, and the fierce love she kept alight inside her heart, for the soul she mourned because she'd believed it was better, so much better than her own.

It was almost funny, how the things they let go had a way of finding their way back.

But Nyssa never had to, never again, because the Demon was long dead — and it was a new day.

"Hey." Felicity crouched beside him, tipping his head back so that she could examine the livid red mark forming on his jaw. "How many fingers?"

Oliver half-laughed in relief and pressed his forehead to hers, thankful that she was here with him. "Felicity," he said, as if it was the only thing he _could_ say.

"I really hope she didn't give you a concussion," Felicity muttered, peering at his face in mock-seriousness. "That would be _bad_."

— "Oliver Queen."

They both turned at the sound of his name. Nyssa had stepped forward, Sara at her side, staring down at them both. Oliver saw Felicity shift slightly, as if she was putting herself between him and Nyssa.

"Calm yourself, Sa'ida." Nyssa looked amused, because she'd noticed too. "I shall not harm him."

Felicity made a skeptical noise. "She says…after punching him in the face."

"It's okay, Felicity." Sara had nothing but trust in her eyes when she glanced at Nyssa. "She promised."

Nyssa extended a hand to Oliver, who reached out and let her help him to his feet. "Thank you," he said, stiffly.

"You look well," she remarked, with a gleam in her eyes that suggested she thought otherwise. "But you've fallen behind in your training — a League assassin would never have sustained an injury like yours."

Oliver exhaled, caught between exasperation and the surprisingly welcome feeling that he and Nyssa were still allies. "I forgot that the League teaches its assassins how to avoid close-range bullets," he said, with a raised eyebrow.

"Of course." Nyssa lifted her shoulder in an effortless shrug. "Your injury is _precisely_ because you've forgotten. We shall have to rectify that."

They smiled at each other, and he knew that it meant fences mended, allies unchanged.

"God, is that the Nanda Parbat version of _I've-missed-you_?" Felicity said. "Give each other a hug, why don't you — _oh_ —"

Oliver met Felicity's surprised gaze over Nyssa's shoulder, because Nyssa al Ghul, the Demon herself, remembered and embraced Felicity Smoak as a dear friend.

"Sa'ida," she said, quietly. "Your presence is much missed in Nanda Parbat."

Felicity patted Nyssa's back with her good hand. "Well, if you had a tarmac or some decent Wi-Fi…"

Nyssa laughed and kissed Felicity's cheek. "Silver-tongued as ever," she said, with an appreciative gleam in her eyes. "Now — what brings you Nanda Parbat?"

"Um." Felicity cleared her throat and turned back to their friends, many of which had expressions of curiosity — or in Thea's case — complete confusion. "That's…kind of a long story."

* * *

In hindsight, Felicity really should have done a PSA on the League of Assassins. It probably would have made it easier to explain why the woman who'd punched Oliver in the face was still — and had always been — their ally. Besides Thea and Ray, everyone else knew who Nyssa was, but that was _very_ different from seeing the League in its home base. As far as being used to the League was concerned, Oliver came in first, and Felicity would probably have cinched second place.

And she wasn't even sure if _good-lord-do-people-actually-do-that-here?_ counted as _not_ being surprised by the League of Assassins.

So, in short, nope — not that used to it at all.

Nyssa's black eyes traveled down the length of their assembled group. "The healer — the boy with the playthings — and flight-footed one," she said, with what Felicity assumed was her version of an uncannily detailed memory.

Caitlin looked mildly gratified at being remembered, Cisco grinning so hard that his mouth seemed incapable of forming words, and Barry just looked adorably confounded as usual.

"Uh…" he said. "Thank you?"

"I do not know you," she stated, cocking her head at Ray. "Are you a hostage? Or an apprentice? One of Oliver's misguided proteges, perhaps?"

Roy made an indignant noise under his breath.

"Actually," Ray said, with surprising roll-with-it humor, "I have a mask too. Hi — Ray Palmer. Billionaire, inventor, nocturnal vigilante. 140 IQ, and three PhDs."

Nyssa ignored his outstretched hand. "You're not nearly deformed enough to be a Hephaestus," she said, and turned her head.

Thea folded her arms and glared back in response to Nyssa's scrutiny, ignoring Felicity's warning nudge to _be nice_. Nyssa raised an eyebrow and glanced at Oliver.

"Your sister has the same fire in her…and the same foolhardy stubbornness, I imagine."

Thea craned her neck to force Nyssa's attention back to her. "She can use a bow and arrow too, so don't pull that stunt with her brother again."

Amusement flickered in Nyssa's black eyes. "As I said — the same fire. I am Nyssa al Ghul — Head of the Demon."

"Thea Queen, vigilante enthusiast and part-time archer."

Nyssa smiled at Sara, as if she was satisfied with the examination of her guests. "You have my gratitude for returning Sara to Nanda Parbat," she said. "But what is it you require of me?"

"We need a place to hide out," Sara answered. "Nanda Parbat is the only place remote enough for us to go undetected."

Nyssa, as usual, went for the bullseye question. "By who?" she asked.

Felicity hesitated. "Remember the part where I said it was a long story?"

Everyone was looking at her now, and Felicity sighed, wondering if what she was about to say had catchphrase potential. "We're being hunted by a power-hungry and _very_ well-connected psycho," she explained. "He's also my father."

Trust Nyssa to find humor in one of the worst situations possible. "My," she said, with a dark smile. "Your lives certainly never get dull, do they?"

Oliver, needless to say, wasn't laughing. "Can you help us?" he asked, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Nyssa.

Nyssa's cloak swirled around her when she turned and began to walk. "I seem to recall you and your companions aiding me in a war against my father," she said, over her shoulder. "It seems right to return the favor. Come — Nanda Parbat awaits."

* * *

"I am _so_ confused right now," said Thea, watching Nyssa and Sara walk ahead of them up the slope, seemingly unaware of the twenty assassins and ragtag group of vigilantes/tech nerds/secret agency operatives in the peanut gallery. "So Sara was in the League, and Nyssa was — _oh_."

Felicity was on her tiptoes to get a better look at the livid red mark on Oliver's jaw. "That's what Cisco said when Nyssa kissed me," she said, absentmindedly.

Thea looked around. "She did _what_?"

Felicity didn't even know _what_. She felt weirdly dizzy, maybe because her body wasn't used to the thinner oxygen at high altitudes. Finally — a place where talking too much might actually kill her.

Oliver pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's a…long story, Speedy."

"I have a question," said Ray. "So she shot an arrow at you, punched you in the face, kissed your ex-girlfriend — that's a little weird, just BTW — and we're going to be working with her to stop Darhk…assuming, of course, that she doesn't decide we're _personae non gratae_ and kick us out of the very remote assassin's lair located somewhere in a Tibetan mountain range."

"Yes," Oliver responded, with his usual brevity.

Felicity pinched his middle. "What he means to say," she added, hastily, "is that we've worked with Nyssa before, and she kinda owes us a favor. But yeah, basically everything you just said."

"Well, I don't understand anything anymore," said Ray.

"For once, I'm with you, Supersuit," Thea said. "What kind of crazy psycho shoots an arrow at —"

"— _Thea_ ," said Felicity. "Inside voice."

Roy adjusted one of the bags hefted over his shoulder. "At the risk of getting my head bitten off," he said, "I think that's how the League of Assassins say hello. Hey, Barry — Didn't Nyssa almost strangle you last year when she was getting out of a coma?"

Barry made a face, ruefully massaging his throat. "Thank you, Roy, for bringing that up. Almost being strangled by a recent coma patient…that's not embarrassing, or traumatic — at all."

"It was _awesome_ ," said Cisco, gazing dreamily up at Nyssa's back. He coughed when everyone stared at him. "I mean, Nyssa was — she still is — never mind."

Felicity knew what he meant (but in less of a puppy-love way). She never thought she'd be a happy third wheel in another couple's reunion scenario (ever), much less a couple comprised of two assassins, one of whom had been assumed dead for the better part of a year.

Then again, she wasn't in any position to judge — not since her fiancé had been clinically dead for a brief, brief spell, later brought back by a mystical body of geothermal water.

 _You really can't make this stuff up_ , she thought.

They were a team of impossibilities, from the ex-playboy billionaire who'd somehow survived a shipwreck and being marooned on a deserted island for five years, to the couple comprised of a veteran soldier and super-spy, the street-thief-turned-vigilante, the billionaire heiress with some serious archery skills, the tech genius who'd turned science fiction into fact, the guy who could run faster than the speed of light, the mechanical engineer and biomedical scientistwho apprehended and rehabilitated super-powered humans on a daily basis.

And her — hacker daughter of a super-villain, reporting for duty.

Compared to that, recently deceased assassin was just another impossible in their league of unbelievable individuals.

"She's impossible," Felicity said, with a smile. "We all are."

Diggle and Oliver smiled at her, but Thea looked like she wanted to check if Felicity was running a fever.

"Are you all _quite_ finished dawdling?" Nyssa's voice rang out in the open space, carried back to them by the strong wind. "Or do you not require rest and shelter?"

"Oh no, I see what you're saying," Thea muttered, sarcastically. "She's definitely _impossible_."

Barry grinned and was gone in the blink of an eye (show-off) — to reappearsuddenly at the top of the slope, looking over the other side with Nyssa and Sara.

" _Whoa_ ," he said, the awe in his voice echoing back to them in the breeze.

Felicity felt Oliver's hand slip into hers as they picked up the pace. Her lungs were burning by the time they reached the others, and Felicity thought her eyes were playing tricks on her, because there was just _no way_.

The last time she'd been in Nanda Parbat, the only thing marking its place was an eroded doorway in dusty red stone, some relic of a forgotten temple, a ghost story overlooking a tiny village. Of course, because it was the League, that entrance had apparently been a death trap for anyone with less than League-level reflexes, with more hidden entrances than Super Villain fortresses in bad B-movies. The actual city itself had been utterly without daylight, an impossible maze of chaotic streets and an imposing palace inhabited by the Demon, all flame and shadow and jagged stone.

A little more than a year later, the hidden labyrinth beneath the mountain was gone, and in its place was a city built on the mountain itself. The village was at least twice the size that Felicity remembered, the houses more chaotic but _alive_ , gradually sloping up the hill and towards the gates of a vast white monastery. Crowned with sloping roofs of crimson and gold, the pale stone towers seemed to build onto each other, each soaring higher than the next, making it look like a palace rising from the mountain itself.

The color scheme and the location weren't exactly subtle, but anything Nyssa did rarely was, and she'd driven the point home. The League of Assassins under Nyssa's leadership was a different place.

But did it really have to be so high? Felicity was feeling nauseous just thinking of the height, not helped at all by the fact that they were standing at the top of a rolling slope overlooking the valley and village.

She really hoped she wasn't breaking the bones in Oliver's hand — he'd really need that for later, what with his fiancé's dad being pure evil and all.

"Anyone else hearing _Ding-Dong the Witch is Dead_?" she asked, her voice sounding faint even to her own ears. "Or in this case — _Wizard_?"

She was immediately glad that the wind blew her words away, but true to super assassin form, Nyssa heard her.

"Did I not promise this, Sa'ida?" she asked, in a voice rippling with pride. "A city under the sun."

Sara turned her face into Nyssa's shoulder. "It's beautiful, Nyssa," she said. "I can't believe you did this."

"My father once told me that love was a weakness, yet he hid beneath a mountain and forced his people to live in the shadows." Nyssa gazed at Sara, and her voice softened. "To him, love was fear. He failed to understand that to love was to be —"

"— fearless," Oliver said, as if he couldn't stop himself, and they — Nyssa and Oliver — shared a look of mutual understanding, one that made Felicity think they were better friends than they let on.

"It shall never happen again, in my lifetime." Nyssa sighed, looking on her newly crafted legacy. "Welcome to Nanda Parbat."

* * *

Felicity wanted a pillow. She would have given up Netflix (but not ice cream, _please_ ) for the squashy-soft invention meant to cushion heads. Even an IKEA pillow. Just — sleep.

But no, because with a crazy power-hungry sociopath on the other end of a manhunt, they needed a war council of their own.

Five people in a room. Two assassins, the hacker, the archer, and the soldier.

"Mind control," Nyssa repeated, dividing an opaque look between her and Sara.

Felicity pinched the bridge of her nose. She was in a chair by the long wooden table nearly spanning the length of the stone chamber, trying not to have her head explode. Oliver's hand rubbed gently between her shoulder blades, silently working to ease the knot in her muscles — and she was grateful for it, for him.

Nyssa wasn't stupid — far from it. But explaining the concept of a nano-implant programmed to subvert the conscious mind, as well as the Plan B explosive function, was like explaining a rainbow to a blind person.

Or, if one was being excessively detail-oriented, the concept of nano-computing and neurotechnology to a highly trained queen of assassins, one who still spoke like she was in a different century.

And Felicity hadn't even gotten to the part about the nanites yet.

Sara uncrossed her arms and lifted the hair off the back of her neck. "With three arrow wounds in my stomach, I can't say I haven't had worse," she said. "I don't even remember getting it — just waking up…and there it was."

Felicity lifted her head in surprise, because even she hadn't seen it yet. She really should have, because the sight made her blood turn to ice.

Being with Oliver meant that she'd seen her fair share of scars, but it also meant that she knew what an ugly wound looked like, injuries and markings inflicted with malice. The knotted white scar near Sara's hairline, a raised line of healed flesh as long as her littlest finger…it was a cruel wound.

And she knew who'd done it.

"Sara…" she said. "I'm so sorry."

Sara looked up. "It's not your fault," she said, and Felicity knew from her tone that she wasn't just being kind. "It doesn't hurt — and I wouldn't be standing here if you hadn't been so brave, overriding Darhk's programming like that."

Felicity bit her lip when Nyssa bent to examine Sara's wound. Her expression was something Felicity recognized as well — she wore it every time she made Oliver show her his newest injury, partly to make sure he wasn't understating its impact, but mostly because it hurt to see someone she loved wounded.

"Darhk did this," Nyssa said, tracing the straight scar with her thumb. It wasn't a question, and it almost seemed like she was talking to herself.

Sara looked over her shoulder at Nyssa. "Hey," she said, as her hand slipped to the back of Nyssa's neck and she gave her a gentle shake. "I'm fine. I'm okay now."

Nyssa gave her a grudging smile, but it was rapidly replaced by a steely glint in her dark eyes. "But Darhk must suffer for what he inflicted upon you," she said, and turned to Felicity. "That — is without question."

Felicity caught Diggle's eye. "I never thought I'd say this — _ever_ — but you might have to get in line for that."

Diggle raised his hand. "Right here," he said, dryly.

Oliver cleared his throat. "We need to think about our next move. Nanda Parbat may be remote enough to escape Darhk's surveillance, but he'll still come after people like us — and we can't let that happen."

Nyssa rolled her eyes, as if she'd heard it all before. "I'd question your altruistic motives, but you've always taken a special interest in lives that should not be your concern," she said, and crossed her arms. "How many warriors does this…Damien Darhk command?"

Felicity got to her feet. "Excellent question," she said, laying her palms flat on the table. "Besides Malcolm Merlyn the Unkillable Psychopath, we don't know."

"A serpent to the last," Nyssa said, her hand resting on her sword hilt. "He too shall face justice in due course."

"Right," Felicity said. "No arguments there. Also in the vein of good-ish news, I fried the ARGUS mainframe with the Brother Eye virus, but the not-so-great news is that I don't know how much time the unexpected technical glitch buys us until Damien can restart ORACLE somewhere else."

"If he even waits that long," Diggle pointed out. "Lyla said that he'd managed to build a prototype ship. That thing probably has enough drones to take out the whole of Starling if he wanted it to."

"He's right," said Sara. "I've been on the ship once — he's going to launch and control those drones from there. The last time I checked, it was docked a few hours out from Starling, but he'd have shifted locations by now if Felicity's virus took down ARGUS HQ."

"I'm guessing it's too much to hope for that the Giant Evil Battleship was hooked up to the ARGUS networks and got super-infected by my computer virus too?" Felicity muttered.

Silence was the best — and only — answer she needed.

_Excellent._

"Okay — game plan." Felicity drummed her fingers on the table, her mind racing to fill in the gaps. "We all agree that the Psychopathic Duo need to be taken down, no questions there." She exchanged a look with Oliver, a brief reminder of what _was_ under question (namely, who would be doing said _taking down_ of Damien Darhk) before continuing. "But my dad's probably holed up on a ship we can't find, playing house with mind-controlled innocent people, all of which he could explode at the push of a button — which is _not_ great. The only silver lining in this deplorable situation is the fact that I'm still the Oracle, which means that he can't go full-throttle on the genocide just yet."

"That would hardly have stopped my father," Nyssa remarked. "Innocent lives were game pieces to him, and a man with visions of cleansing the world rarely waits for the weaker player to move first."

The three of them stared at her, and Sara sighed. "Nyssa," she said, as if they had a system of compassion warnings (gentle reminder when empathy fell dangerously low).

"Understanding fatal flaws may have been my father's way," Nyssa continued, "but failing to see indomitable strengths was my father's weakness. If Darhk believes that you are beaten, he shan't be expecting you to return with a vengeance."

Felicity saw Oliver's expression shift. "What are you offering?" he asked, carefully.

Nyssa unsheathed her sword and twirled it gracefully through the air, a single arc of dark steel. "Your injuries make it apparent that you've forgotten key lessons from your time in Nanda Parbat," she said, sounding almost thoughtful as she stopped the blade mid-swing, where it hovered in a perfectly straight line, beautifully balanced.

"I propose that we ready ourselves to face Darhk's army, presumably led by his second-in-command, Malcolm Merlyn. That will be our undertaking, for all except…Sa'ida."

Nyssa pointed her sword at Felicity, who raised her eyebrows. "What — am I not involved in the assassin boot camp?" she said, because war councils always brought out the snark in her.

"From what you've described, it seems that our best chance of defeating your father will be using your skills. He's clever, I'm sure, but so are you. Do you mean to tell me that your abilities fall short of his?" Nyssa paused, and her lips curved in a smile. " _Oracle_."

Felicity glanced at Oliver, half-expecting him to call the shots (or attempt to), as he usually did, leaving her to step in when he crossed the line from _insane_ into _stupid_. Until she realized that he — and everyone else in the room — was waiting for her to respond, that it was up to her to make up the crazy plan.

The Arrow, the Flash, Arsenal, Black Canary, the ATOM…

…and Oracle.

Because why the hell not.

Felicity looked around the room, from Oliver, to Diggle, to Sara, and finally back at Nyssa again. She crossed her arms. "No killing," she said, and held up a hand before Nyssa could object. "I mean any ARGUS agents and prisoners under HIVE's control. If they have a micro-implant, they can't be held responsible for their actions. We don't kill them — _that_ , is non-negotiable."

She shared a look with Sara, who nodded. "No killing," she said, huskily. "Nyssa?"

After a long moment, Nyssa looked away from Sara. "So what do you propose we do, if Darhk's men — controlled as they may be — attack us first?" she asked. "Should we embrace them? Or fall on our swords before they have the chance to kill us themselves?"

Felicity swallowed at the unnecessarily graphic imagery. "I don't know how exactly we're going to hack into every single implant and shut down the creepy mind control," she admitted. "But…that's why I need Cisco, Caitlin, and Ray. They brought their tech with them, and we have a bit of a track record with successful team-ups. I'm pretty sure that between us four _semi_ -qualified nerds, we can probably think of something."

Felicity caught Oliver's smile, and felt her confidence grow along with it, taking strength from the knowledge that they were unequivocally not alone, and that they absolutely knew how to let other people help them.

"So, the four of us will work on a way to disable the implants, which we'll need the rest of you — in a strictly _non-lethal_ fashion — to use in the fight. Neutralize Darhk's army, get to Darhk — destroy ship. Then things go from horrible to just regular old crazy. Sound good?"

Sara was the first to step forward. "As long as Darhk never gets to do this to anyone again," she said, "I'm in."

"I can live with that," said Diggle. "Oliver?"

Oliver had been listening silently as she spoke, and looking at him now — she realized that he'd never taken his eyes off of her, not for an instant.

"Felicity's right," he said, softly. "We do this her way."

Nyssa was the last to speak, and she weighed them all with her inscrutable black gaze, before finally sheathing her sword. "Very well," she said. "You have the full might of the League of Assassins behind you."

"Thank you." Felicity looked all her friends in the eye, because she meant it. She was unspeakably grateful that they trusted her, even though they knew who she was — who her father was.

They could have hated her. They could have relegated her to the sidelines, tech support or computer nerd. But they were letting her call the shots, and she wanted more than anything not to let them down.

Felicity didn't have a lot of experience with the inspirational quotes or being the center of attention at war councils, but having everyone's eyes on her, knowing that she had their trust…it seemed to give her armor, a kind of steely calm that made her almost anticipate the eventual reckoning with her father.

"So we've decided," she said. "Starting tomorrow, we're going to war with Damien Darhk."

* * *

Oliver had gone ahead of Felicity as they left the chamber and was at the end of the hallway, speaking to Nyssa about something vaguely assassin-y while Sara looked on. She guessed from the way he touched his wound that Nyssa was giving him advice about it — or maybe advising him to get it amputated as punishment (being distracted meant her imagination spun more wildly out of control than it usually did).

"You'd better get some sleep," Diggle said, closing the door behind them. He put his hands on his hips and looked down both sides of the stone corridor. A low whistle escaped his lips.

"Yeah…" Felicity said, imagining it through Diggle's eyes. She remembered from her first time seeing the underground Nanda Parbat that the stone-walled, ornate-carving, burning-braziers decor had a way of leaving one impressed-slash-awed.

Diggle was _definitely_ awed.

"This place is huge," he said. "Any chance you have a guidebook so I can find my room and get some sleep?"

Felicity made a face. "I don't think Nyssa gets a lot of tourists this time of year, but I'm sure she'll be nice and show you where everyone is…this one time."

"Great." Diggle shook his head, removing his hand from the gun at the back of his belt. "Every time I see an assassin walk past me in the hallway I have to stop myself from shooting them. I should work on that — not that this place would have a gun range, but…"

"Dig," Felicity said, suddenly. "Do you have time for one other thing?"

Something in her tone must have alerted him, because he looked around warily. "Felicity, the last time you sounded like that, you asked me how much tranquilizer it would take to knock out a grown man like Oliver Queen." He folded his arms, his expression concerned. "What don't you want Oliver to know?"

Felicity didn't see any point in lying, not to Diggle. "Oliver…doesn't agree with me when I say that Damien Darhk needs to be taken out. Permanently."

"That's not hard to imagine. He'll kill Darhk himself — in a heartbeat — but he doesn't want you to do it," Diggle said, unsurprised. "Classic Oliver."

"I know." Felicity nodded, becoming nervous now because she was building towards it — the favor. "And I don't want him to. Not this time. Damien's blood should be on my hands, not anyone else's. I know you want him dead too, and if you get the chance — that's your choice. But I've made mine, and if I get a shot, I want to know that I can take it."

Diggle waited, his expression unreadable. Felicity took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. "Will you teach me how to shoot?" she asked.

For what seemed like an eternity, Diggle didn't move. "I remember when I first started training you," he said. "You'd just started working with us, and I thought I'd sleep easier if I knew that you could handle yourself out there."

Felicity almost smiled. "You know that I can."

"Yes," Diggle agreed. "You can. Which means that if I teach you how to shoot, I can't say it's because I want you to be safe…especially since we both know a certain hooded vigilante will do whatever it takes to protect you."

"I know, Dig, I do. I could lie to you, and say that knowing how to use a gun would make me feel safer — but that's not why I want to learn, and you of all people _know_ why I have to."

Diggle glanced down the hallway, and she knew that he was making sure Oliver was out of earshot.

"Are you sure you want this?" he asked, and she was reminded of another time when she'd stood in the middle of a Foundry, keeping a secret for a friend, a flash drive in her hand and a mystery hanging in the air.

She'd asked him, then, if he'd wanted to know about Andy. He'd said yes, taking on the weight of the repercussions.

This time, it was blood on her hands, a darkness in her soul…for her friends. For Oliver.

Felicity knew what she wanted to say, but it still hit her like a brick when the word left her lips. "Yes," she said, simply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Diggle and Felicity have a secret now. Yays.
> 
> Also, semi-bad news: I'm on vacation again next week, and pretty much until the middle of July, but I SWEAR I'll do what I can to write. So don't ditch the story just yet, okay?


	50. On Your Own Terms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI - THIS IS NOT THE SCENE I WAS TALKING ABOUT ON MY TUMBLR. Like I predicted, it wasn't going to fit in this update so I didn't add it in. Which may or may not be a good thing, depending on how gutter-minded you are (i.e. klarolicityswan, ruwithmeguys, smoakd - the usual offenders :D)

The door swung shut behind Felicity with a loud crank, startling her from her thought-spiral. She blinked, realizing that A) they were inside, and B) from the impractically large bed staring her in the face, that it was a bedroom.

Their bedroom.

Because she'd been expecting Oliver to lead her to the kitchens. Seriously — keeping secrets from Oliver was neck in neck with lying, as far as things she weren't good at were concerned.

Oliver's hand was still in the small of her back. "Are you all right?" he asked, looking worried.

Felicity nodded, a little too quickly. "Mm-hm. Just…jittery, I think. Adrenaline — or maybe my body's learned to manufacture its own caffeine, which would be _great_ , believe me. If I had an accountant, she'd be very worried about how much I spend on caffeinated drinks, seriously —"

Oliver felt her forehead. His palm was warm, compared to her skin, which felt unattractively clammy, if she was being honest. "You're not running a fever," he said, shifting his hand so it rested against her cheek. "But you need to sleep."

Felicity made a non-committal noise and slipped away from him. Her stomach was in knots, and she knew why. But she pretended it was Nanda Parbat, being in a place neither of them were particularly fond of.

The room was distracting enough. Not in a stab-you-in-the-eyes way (there was actually a surprising lack of weapons hanging on the walls), since the walls, the carpet, and even the bed were in warm shades of red and brown. If it weren't for the view of snow-capped mountains and night mist through the open window, it could have been a themed bedroom at some fancy country hotel, what with the decor and the warm candlelight flickering along the walls.

Then again, she highly doubted Nanda Parbat did room service.

Felicity pinched a fold of red silk between her fingers, tracing the hangings all the way up to the canopy draping the bed. "I don't think I ever saw your room back when you were in the League," she said, "but Nyssa must like you more than her father did."

She winced at the silence. "Sorry. Bad joke. _Fancy_ makes me nervous, and nervous makes me…" She made a vague twisty gesture with her hand.

Felicity was still facing the bed and wondering which verbal landmine to set off next when Oliver's arms slipped around her waist. In spite of her nerves, she made a faint sound of relief and leaned back against him, swaying lightly in his arms as he held her.

She closed her eyes when he kissed her ear. "You don't have to be," he said, his lips tickling her cheek. "Nanda Parbat's different now."

"So are we," she said, turning her head slightly to the side so that she could see him. "You — mostly. A few more scars, here and there…"

Oliver chuckled and started to kiss her neck while Felicity laughed to herself, directing her words at the carved ceiling. "A laugh-line or two…a more collaborating attitude…a ring on your finger…"

Oliver stopped her words with a kiss, and it didn't taste of guilt, not to her, at least. It was easy, and surprisingly sweet — made that way by the happy memories standing out from all the fears they associated with Nanda Parbat.

Felicity shifted in his arms so that she could kiss him back, winding her free arm around his neck as he lifted her up. Her hand blindly spanned the circumference of a carved bedpost, and she pushed lightly off it, silently guiding them towards the bed itself. The silk covers rustled against her back when Oliver laid her down, cool air dancing across her bare stomach as he teased the hem of her shirt higher and higher with the kind of ease that only came from experience, and knowing that she wanted him too.

She did, she really did.

"Oliver," she said, trying (and nearly failing) not to groan. "You're hurt."

As it so often was, his mouth was preoccupied doing something other than speaking.

"What if you tear your stitches?"

Oliver didn't answer, and Felicity felt him undo her sling — toss it halfway across the room before returning to the business of getting her shirt off. She was about to return the favor when she saw the dried stain of blood underneath his sleeve, and it was like a slap of water in the face.

" _Oliver_ ," Felicity said, yanking her shirt firmly down with both hands. "Pause."

He did, leaning back on his hands with a quizzical expression — even as his chest rose and fell from his rapid breathing.

Felicity waited a few seconds for her breath to return before struggling up on her elbows. "We are both covered in blood and other unspeakable things seriously non-conducive to romance," she said, firmly. "There is a bathroom somewhere in this… _harem_ _suite_ and we are going to find it, because I am _not_ sleeping with you until we've both had a shower."

* * *

"The room has a _hot tub_?" Felicity said, looking around his shoulder at the stone basin.

Oliver remembered the hot pools in the underground city, shivering with volcanic heat. This was more of a spring, one of the many places where water collected inside the mountain. He sat on the edge of the basin and skimmed his hand lightly across the water, spreading a deep ripple across the glassy clear surface.

The basin holding the water came just about to his waist, and the water itself bubbled from a lion's head mouth in the wall, keeping the room constantly humid with steam. Already Oliver could feel his clothes sticking to his body, but Felicity leaned over the pool, oblivious that her clothes were in a similar state.

"Nyssa must _really_ like you," Felicity said, stirring the water with her fingertip and watching her reflection dissipate. "This is like…really _nice_ — what — what? Do I have something on me?"

Oliver realized he'd been staring at the curve of her waist. He shook his head, which did nothing to disperse the mental image of him peeling the clothes from Felicity's body and kissing her all over until she made that noise deep in her throat — the one that meant she couldn't wait anymore.

"No," he said, and hastily stood up to go. "I'll — I'll be outside."

He was halfway to the door when Felicity stopped him by wrapping her arms around his middle. "Oliver," she said, pressing her chin lightly against his chest as she looked him carefully in the eye. "When did you hear me say I wanted to be alone?"

It easily wasn't the first time Felicity had thought this about Oliver, but her fiancé was a very, _very_ beautiful man. His bare chest was such a distraction that Felicity forgot she was holding his discarded shirt and stared for a long half minute, wondering how fast she could speed through the washing bit until she got to the more fun parts.

So to speak.

"Felicity?" Oliver looked up, in the middle of peeling away the sterile bandage covering his arm. "What are you doing?"

"Um…" _Admiring the view_ was the truthful answer, but Felicity felt it would undermine her previous decision to put a momentary kibosh on their bedroom activities in favor of a shower (bath, as it was rapidly turning out to be).

So she reached out and touched the flushed mark on Oliver's face. "I don't have to be Caitlin to tell you that's going to bruise," she said, and turned her attention to the bullet wound in his arm.

It was held closed by stitches, and reassuringly looked worse only because of the dried blood around his arm, but experience — and common sense — told her that it was going to be another mark left on his body. The thought made her frown, and Oliver stroked the hair off her forehead, gently rubbing the spot between her eyebrows like he meant to erase the crease there.

It tickled, and she laughed, which made him laugh too. "It's not the first time," he said, sweeping a trailing lock of hair behind her ear. His hand lingered, and she turned her head to press a kiss into his palm. A lot of bullets and knife wounds…and he still used a bow.

Reassuring.

"I'm just worried that you'll run out of space one day," she said, trying to be light about his scars, and the dangers he'd faced that had got him those marks. "Even masterpieces get overcrowded, and you, my almost-husband, are getting dangerously close to being _distracting_."

Oliver was quiet for a moment, and Felicity watched his eyes soften. "Say it again," he murmured, and she clasped his hand in hers, lifting it so that she could press her lips to the ring on his hand.

" _Husband_ ," she whispered, and they both laughed at the lightness of it, the promise.

But it was another promise on their list, still achingly unfulfilled. "I guess we missed our shot," she said, ruefully tucking his hand under her chin. "We should have eloped — gone to Vegas. Orange nachos and warm beer for a wedding dinner sounds pretty good right about now."

Oliver made the skin of her palm tingle as he traced the natural creases in her skin. "We'll think of something," he answered. "I told you — I love you, and I'm going to marry you, Felicity."

A part of her wanted to tease him, to ask — jokingly — _when?_

But it wasn't a question either of them could really answer, on the run from the danger that had shattered their shared world. It was a dark thought, and Felicity wanted to keep it at bay, at least for a while longer.

"So," she said, reaching for a washcloth. "Hot water setting — lobster, or magma?"

Oliver laughed under his breath and leaned his head against the wall, looking at her like he was utterly content to be there. "You choose," he said.

Felicity flicked water at him. "Good answer."

* * *

Kisses and damp skin. Felicity opened her eyes and saw her reflection ripple under the droplets of water free-falling from her wet hair. Her mouth was open in an uncontrollable moan, her arms stretched out in front of her and grasping blindly at the edges of the pool — wild, disheveled, unrecognizable.

A face appeared over her shoulder, as wild and uncontrolled as her own, before a wave of water swallowed their reflections and sloshed over the edge of the pool. Felicity threw her hair back, baring herself for Oliver to mark her neck and shoulder with kisses. They were hard and soft and between gasps as he moved behind her, his hands traveling down from cupping her breasts to caressing her belly and finally between her thighs — spreading her wider, wider still…

To think this had all started with an inadvertent brush of his thigh. As soon as certain natural impulses became too obvious to hide, the pretense of bathing went swiftly the way of their clothes.

The thought made Felicity smile and arch her back, pushing against Oliver to take him harder, deeper. He groaned into her neck, and they rocked together, careless of the water lapping around their hips. The volcanic spring had started out too warm against her skin, but now — it was _perfect_.

Felicity lifted one shaking hand and grasped Oliver's face, turning it towards her own so their mouths fed hungrily on each other, harsh, gasping breaths that somehow left her more desperate for air than before. Oliver's fingers dug into her thighs and his thrusts became more rapid, flesh striking flesh in the same deep place that sent irrepressible shivers up the length of her spine. Felicity felt herself curl at the waist in an attempt to control the spasms in her body, her eyes squeezed shut so she missed his hand slipping between her legs.

Her head jerked up in surprise when she felt his fingers rub her sensitive flesh. A sweet, nearly unbearable torture.

" _Oliver—!_ " she said, hoarsely.

"What?" he whispered, the words almost lost against her lips. "What, Felicity?"

Oh, he was touching her, driving her…and she didn't want him to stop. Felicity released her grip on the edges of the pool and surrendered herself to him completely. If she fell — as if he would let her fall — it had to be worth it. "Don't stop," she said, not caring how it sounded, not when they were like this. "Don't you _dare_ stop."

Oliver buried a smile in her neck and continued to thrust deep. Something had changed in their rhythm, something small but oh-so-important, like a last piece had fallen into place and two were suddenly moving as one. Felicity felt herself build, each time almost — almost — brushing her limit, until one final push sent her over the edge. She came without warning, a sharp gasp caught in her throat and an overpowering few seconds of mindless bliss.

Felicity's insides were still warm and throbbing when she moved with Oliver to his release. He lasted only a few seconds more, and she knew he was coming when his hips jerked in the same mindless pleasure that pulled her apart only moments before. His hands were tight around her waist and he kept up a hard — inexorable pace — until she felt him shake around her, inside her. With one final push, Oliver pressed his forehead into her hair with a gasp and she heard her name rushed from his lips.

Felicity felt her insides tingle in welcome aftershocks, and she let her head dip in relief, the ends of her hair fanning out beneath the water surface. The darkness behind her eyes was gentle and throbbed pleasantly to the beat of her heart — it was a dreamy feeling that nearly carried her away. She was brought back by the sensation of Oliver kissing her neck, once — twice — again, before they carefully slipped apart. Felicity tasted the steamy air on the tip of her tongue as she groped for the edge of the pool, loose-limbed and clumsy. Oliver had to help her out, and she stood in the middle of the tiled floor, swaying and trying not to laugh as they took turns toweling each other dry.

Felicity lifted her arms for him to wind a towel around her body and waited until he was done before she grudgingly wrapped one around his middle, tucking it in at the waist. He covered her head with a towel and laughed with her as he rubbed her hair dry. Felicity had to stand on her tiptoes to return the favor, but he ducked his head obediently until she'd finished.

They smiled at each other through the swirling steam, all flushed skin and bright eyes, as bashful as teenagers after a clandestine meet-up, as dreamy as lovers who'd lost track of everything except themselves.

"Oliver?" Felicity said, looking up at him.

Oliver took her face in his hands, tipping it gently up to his. "Felicity," he answered.

"I love you."

Even though her eyes were closed, she could feel the upturned curve of his mouth when he kissed her. "I love you," he whispered back.

* * *

Oliver felt the gun press cold against his forehead, heard the roar in his ears when it fired, and knew the metallic taste of fear on his tongue. He dreamed that he was fighting a dozen faceless assassins with a sword that cut his hands open every time he tried to manipulate it. He fought them until he was covered all over with weeping gashes and he realized that his attackers all had Malcolm Merlyn's face.

 _You'll have to do better than that_ , they sneered, and when Oliver tried to fight back, he felt a blade pierce his chest — a length of black iron, curved like a crescent moon — with enough force to make his whole body arch back.

It was Ra's al Ghul's sword.

Suddenly he was falling…falling through the formless shadows and the foul whispers, until his back broke on a ground made up of jagged rocks and the crows swarmed overhead to engulf him in darkness again.

" _Oliver_?"

He woke with a start, feeling the shallow remnants of his panic shiver his skin, keep the pace of his heart at a rapid _thud-thud_. Bad dreams, just bad dreams. Oliver's hands were flat and open by his sides, but he could tell from the silken creases beneath his fingertips that he'd been clutching at them like a lifeline as he dreamed.

Oliver knew what he would have done, more than a year ago. He would have slipped out of bed and started his day. He would have trained in the Foundry, chased down a lead in whatever case they were working…anything, _anything_ except staying still.

But not anymore. The sheets rustled when Oliver turned on his side, knowing even before he saw her that he wouldn't have to look far for comfort.

Felicity was asleep beside him, lying on her stomach with her face turned towards him, her hand — and the ring on her finger — resting on the pillow by her head. Seeing her, peaceful and at rest…that was the only comfort he needed.

She shifted in her sleep. A crease formed between her eyebrows and she made a little _huff_ of displeasure, turning this way and that on the pillow like she was looking for something. Oliver watched her, wondering what she was dreaming about, until her hand grasped open and shut like a child searching for comfort.

It was just a guess, but he slipped his hand into hers and quietly held it to his chest as he gathered her close to him again. She sighed and nuzzled at his chest before settling around him, her limbs entwining themselves with his own as if they'd fallen asleep like that to begin with.

It was a surprise to Oliver, how peaceful it was in Nanda Parbat — the last place he imagined he'd be at rest — and how far removed from their troubles it all seemed. He watched the strip of morning sun falling across the bed, smelled the high, clear air of the mountains, felt the quiet intimacy of their shared bed, pillows and sheets rumpled and warm with the imprint of their bodies. He traced little patterns in Felicity's bare spine as she slept, slipping in and out of a comfortable doze.

He'd just started to drift off when he felt Felicity press her forehead suddenly against his chest, sharp and sudden enough to alert him. She made a low noise in her throat, like the choked beginnings of a word. Her grip on his hand was now painfully tight, and he listened — to what she was trying to say.

It sounded like…just one word. Felicity groaned it once, but it was too soft to hear, and he went still, listening for it again.

Then —

" _Oliver_."

She was having a nightmare, and it was about him.

* * *

"Felicity." Oliver touched her cheek, cupping it with his hand. "It's just a dream."

Nothing happened. Felicity was shaking her head now, her eyes still screwed shut. " _No_ ," she said, through her teeth. " _Not him_. Leave him alone. Not…not him. No… _no_."

Oliver sat up and started to shake her. She was thrashing on her back, her hair nearly blinding him every time she jerked her head.

" _No!_ " she screamed, as hoarse as though her heart was breaking.

"Felicity —"

Felicity clawed blindly at the air — fighting whatever it was that tormented her in the nightmare, and Oliver felt the bruise on his face sting abruptly from the scrape of her nails. It worked like a dash of icy water, and he held her firmly down by her wrists. "Felicity — _Felicity!_ " he shouted. "Come back!"

It worked. She woke with a hoarse gasp, her eyes flying open, wide with panic and barely registering his presence until he bent close. "Felicity?"

" _Oliver_. Sorry," she gasped. "I was just — just dreaming."

Oliver felt her racing pulse beneath his hand. "You were having a nightmare," he said, carefully. "I heard my name."

Felicity didn't say anything at first, but avoided his eyes while she pulled the sheet up to cover her body and her bare, white shoulders, the material bunched in the front from her tightly clenched fists.

"It was about your father," Oliver guessed. "You saw him kill me."

Felicity's startled gaze flickered up to his, and the recalled fear in them was enough to confirm his suspicions. "I told you already," she said, surreptitiously passing the back of her hand across her eyes, as if he wouldn't notice that it came away shiny with tears. "We know how that conversation turns out. I tell you that I'm afraid my dad will actually get a gun to your head and shoot, and you tell me that it's not worth it — taking him out before he can hurt you. Then I say it's your life against his, and you say it's not worth my soul…" Felicity sniffed, and gave a little shake of her head. "Trust me, I _know_ the _don't-do-this_ dance, and I'd really prefer not to start the morning with a fight."

"Felicity." Oliver cautiously sat closer, until they were nearly knee-to-knee and he picked up her hands, balancing them in his lap. "I know that I don't have the right to tell you what to do — not after everything I've done. I _know_ that you want to protect me, and the others, and I love you for wanting to."

"But?" she said, running her thumb back and forth across the smooth band of his wedding ring.

"But…" Oliver answered, "it feels like something Damien Darhk might do. Killing — as the only way out. That's what he's done, that's what he's always done, and if you kill him — you're fighting on his terms, not yours."

Oliver remembered, so clearly, the steeliness in Felicity's eyes when she'd led the meeting the day before. The fierce blaze of her heart, worn prominently on her sleeve, and her resolve to fight back. It was the ineffable quality — the _light_ — that everyone would follow, a light that he didn't want to see her lose.

He brushed his lips across her knuckles, and looked her in the eye. "You are the smartest person I know, and if Darhk is going to fight you — Felicity Smoak — declare your own terms. Fight him — in your own way. _Make_ him fight the war on those terms, and those terms alone."

_Do you understand?_

Felicity bit her lip, searching his face in silence. Something shifted minutely in her expression, and Oliver closed his eyes when her hand came up to caress the back of his neck. The sheets whispered as she leaned forward, simultaneously guiding him towards her until their lips met. The kiss was vaguely reconciliatory, but without promises made, and it left him wondering.

Oliver opened his eyes. Felicity was leaning on her hands, her hair spilling around her bare shoulders in a bright tangle of gold, the red sheet slipping unnoticed from her body.

"What does that mean?" he asked, as the few inches of space between them stirred with tantalizing memories of the night before.

Felicity tipped her head to the side, her face thoughtful. "It means…I love you. _That_ …is the one term completely beyond negotiation, regardless of how mad you make me sometimes."

Oliver smiled at the lightness in her voice, and teased the loose folds of the sheet further down her naked back. "Mad," he repeated. "Is that all?"

Felicity nudged his forehead with hers, biting her lip to suppress a smile. "Some other things too."

"Mm," Oliver cast a pointed look in the direction of the bathroom, and her mouth fell open with indignation, even as a rosy flush crept its way into her cheeks.

"Oliver Queen, don't you _dare_ —"

Oliver interrupted her mid-sentence by pulling her down onto the bed, and began to track scratchy kisses from hip to collarbone while she squirmed beneath him, shaking with laughter.

Felicity's laugh was one of his favorite sounds, and Oliver relished every moment of it, until a steady hammering on the bedroom door stopped them both short.

"Oliver!" Roy's voice came from the other side. "Training. We're already late."

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," Felicity groaned, covering her face with her hands. "They do wakeup calls in the remote assassin palace? Really?"

Oliver exhaled, no less frustrated than she was. But he knew from experience that Nyssa was implacable when it came to training discipline, and even though repeating what he and Felicity did in the hot springs the night before was an endlessly appealing idea, he didn't put it past Nyssa to break right through the door if she didn't see him at the sparring session.

"I have to go," he said, and slid off the bed in search of his clothes. "I have to train if I'm going to be at full strength when I face Malcolm."

Felicity made a face. "Urgh. Too early for bottom-barrel human specimens. Use a pseudonym."

Oliver pulled a fresh shirt over his head. "Sorry," he said, and he completely meant it.

"You'd better be," Felicity said, and primly drew the loose sheet around her body. "I am _literally_ wearing nothing right now, and you're ditching me — your very naked fiancée — to go whack some assassins with a bamboo stick."

Oliver had to laugh at her mock-serious expression, and he climbed back onto the bed — full dressed now — to kiss her quickly on the forehead. "I'll see you tonight."

Felicity made a grudging noise in her throat. "Fine, I'll go…set up a lab, or something," she said, with a dismissive wave. "Might distract me from being left hanging by the love of my life, my almost-sorta-husband, _rejected_ — first thing in the morning, oh, how will I live with the —"

Oliver, who'd been listening amusedly up until that point, took Felicity's face in his hands and kissed her full on the mouth.

"— _shame_ ," she breathed, when they eventually pulled apart.

Oliver smiled. "I know," he said, because it _was_ a shame to leave her like this, and winked at her on his way out.

* * *

Felicity barely caught a glimpse of Roy's raised eyebrows before the door shut cleanly behind Oliver and left her alone in the room.

And with her thoughts.

The sunlight cut bright yellow swathes across the air, catching dust motes in their lazy rotations, buoyed by an unseen wind. Alone, her smile faded, and Felicity rested her chin on her knees, hugging them close to her chest like she could keep Oliver's warmth pressed to her body.

Without him, the nightmare came back to her in full, vivid detail, and reminded her of what she'd decided, what she was keeping from him with Diggle.

She hadn't really lied to him, not really. She loved him, more than anyone else in the world, and that would never change.

 _Declare your own terms_ , he'd said.

A game of chess, with her moving the pieces.

An all-knowing mind, waiting for her command.

A gun in her hand, and Damien at her feet.

Felicity wasn't sure _what_ terms she wanted to play on. Her hand opened and shut around empty air as she turned the questions, her doubts, over and over in her head. Unnoticed, her fingers curled themselves around an invisible grip, almost as if she was holding a gun.

Killer — or Oracle.

Fighter — or hacker.

Innocent — or sinner.

Piece — or player.

What would she choose?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What, indeed? :D
> 
> Hopefully the content of these chapters makes up for the lateness of the update. If not, whoops.
> 
> Now, it's super late, so if you excuse me, I'm going to watch some Downton Abbey. Dan Stevens, you beautiful English bastard. Oo, and Hannibal.


	51. Uncomplicated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeeeeey, so this update is super late.   
> BTW, I know I usually update FF and AO3 in tandem, but something funky's going on with either my Wi-Fi or the website, because it keeps rejecting the doc upload. Anyways, until I get that fixed you won't see 51 & 52 on FF.  
> Side note - The word count on Legacies has officially passed You’re His Hope. Good times.

“ _Ow_ ,” Roy said, sprawled flat on his stomach.

“Sorry.” Oliver offered a hand to help him back to his feet, but Roy shot him a suspicious glare instead, like his apology sounded too unconvincing.

“Was that for this morning?” he said. “Because I swear — I had no idea what you guys were doing when I knocked.”

Thea tapped her Bo staff against the flagstones, looking intrigued. “ _What_ about this morning?” she asked.

Oliver cleared his throat, not answering the question. The three of them had been sparring in one of the open courtyards in Nanda Parbat, overlooked by arched windows of the surrounding buildings and the open blue sky. The air was as fresh as rain, clear and cold enough to sting every time he breathed in.

“Let’s just say they were — _busy_ ,” Roy explained, making quotation marks in the air.

Thea snorted. “You mean…in their bedroom, in a place that looks like an Arabian palace, with a breathtaking view of the mountains and the moonlight?” She patted Oliver on the shoulder. “Knocking him over was justified.”

“ _Hey_ ,” said Roy. “Whose side are you on?”

Thea gave them both a look. “Felicity’s, of course.”

“Can we get back to training, please?” Oliver said, trying (and failing) at not sounding irritated. “Speedy — maneuver seven.”

“Sheesh, big brother,” said Thea. “Where’s the fire? Felicity’s going to be busy setting up with Team Flash and Supersuit anyway, so what’s the rush?”

“Speedy!” Oliver said, in exasperation. “What goes on between Felicity and me…is private.” Seeing her expression, he kissed her on the forehead to soften his words. “But I love you for being concerned.”

“My,” Nyssa remarked, and Oliver looked over his shoulder in mild surprise, even though he should have expected a trained assassin of her capabilities to appear soundlessly from nowhere.

Her arms were folded behind her back as she advanced, wearing light black robes instead of heavy armor.

“Nyssa,” he said, shifting the Bo staff behind his back to match her pose. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I gathered as much.” Her eyes traveled to Roy and Thea. “We traditionally use another courtyard for sparring — did you not want your charges tested by the League’s might?”

Oliver gave the two of them a warning look not to take it personally. “We’re used to training by ourselves,” he said. “No offense — but I’ve seen the League’s sparring methods, and they’ve left me with my fair share of scars.”

Nyssa made a dismissive noise. “You’re too soft on them,” she said, and revealed what she’d been holding behind her back.

Three League swords, which she slid over to them before drawing her own. “Malcolm Merlyn — as traitorous to the League’s beliefs as he turned out to be — still remembers his training from his time in Nanda Parbat. Al Sa-Her is a name to which he is well-suited. Skill, trickery, and a ruthless ease to his deception — in these three strengths, he has you outmatched.”

“How is beating the crap out of us going to help, exactly?” Roy said, examining one of the blades she’d given them. Sharp enough to draw blood.

Nyssa twirled her sword. “Perhaps I wish for Oliver to accustom himself…to having less skilled comrades distract him in combat.”

“Or maybe you want to train the three of us to outnumber Malcolm — and win,” Thea observed, her arms crossed in front of her.

“Your sister has a quick mind,” Nyssa said, appreciatively. It quickly evaporated as she shared her ruthless assessment of their skills, as she’d been trained from birth to do. “You are disorganized, your combined technique is nonexistent, and through some misguided familial affection all three of you are fighting as if you have one hand tied behind your back.”

“ _Holding back_?” Roy repeated. “I’m not sure you’ve seen Oliver train us.”

“I just did,” Nyssa said, with a knowing gleam. “And compared to what I have seen him do against the League, he is fighting you and his little sister with his hands tied. While it may be a comfort in training, it does nothing to prepare you for the ruthlessness of the enemy.”

Oliver sighed. “Nyssa,” he said. “I don’t —”

He saw Nyssa move in the corner of his eye, and threw up the Bo staff just in time to stop her sword swing from cleaving him in two. The muscles in his injured shoulder ached under her strength, but he glared at her across the narrow distance. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

“I promise you that Al Sa-Her is well aware of your weaknesses — _all_ of you. In battle, your numbers will become his advantage.” Nyssa forced him back with an effortless shove. “Now,” she said, with a flick of her weapon. “Pick up your sword, and show them what it looks like when Oliver Queen does _not_ hold back.”

* * *

 “It’s not that I don’t think of you as good company, Barry,” Felicity said, reaching around him to check that the length of blue cable was connected to her tablet, “but shouldn’t you be — I don’t know — doing something vaguely _Karate Kid_ -like with Nyssa and the others?”

Barry shot a look at Cisco, Caitlin and Ray — poring over various computers and an armored super suit — as if to check that they were safely out of earshot. Seemingly satisfied that no one was about to send him down to the sparring yard, he cleared his throat and continued to wind up a coil of black wire, sitting cross-legged opposite Felicity on the dusty floor of the makeshift lab they were in the process of setting up. “Come on, it’s been ages since we’ve worked on something together. Setting up a computer lab is totally something I could help with. Totally.”

Felicity looked up from her tablet. “Barry Allen,” she said, her eyes jokingly narrowed. “Are you afraid of Nyssa al Ghul?”

Barry scratched at his back like he was remembering an old itch. “Not _afraid_ , _per se_ , just…cautious. Wary. Unwilling to be shot at. The usual stuff.”

“Oh, come on.” Felicity patted his knee. “You’re being a _little_ dramatic. Oliver totally took back the two arrows he shot at you.”

“By yanking them out of my _back_!” Barry said, indignantly. “I’ll be pulling arrows out of places where the sun doesn’t shine if Nyssa gets her hands on me. That is _so_ not happening.”

Felicity made a face. “Thank you, Barry, for that unnecessarily graphic image,” she said. “Besides, Nyssa likes you. She thinks you’re funny.”

“Funny as in _cute_ , or funny as in ‘hm, let’s see if he’ll make a good porcupine’?”

Felicity rolled her eyes and keyed in the last command. At once, she heard the hopeful mechanical whir of machines coming to life. All around them, the computers lit up like Christmas, and the ATOM suit was like the angel at the top of the tree.

Cisco darted up from behind the suit, his arms raised above his head. “It’s _alive_ ,” he boomed, and began to cackle maniacally. “ _It’s alive, it’s alive_ , _it’s_ …what?” He blinked at the blank stares he was getting in return, looking slightly hurt. “ _Frankenstein_. Black and white classic.”

Ray patted him on the shoulder in apparent condolence. “Normally, I’d start a whole movie-reference-face-off, but —” He grinned at Felicity “—we’re apparently pressed for time, what with the whole mind-controlled army thing.”

“Which we still haven’t figured out how to beat, by the way,” Felicity added, for optimistic reasons she couldn't quite remember.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Ray, rooting inside the arm of his suit with a pair of precision tools. “The nanites in your Smartwatch managed to bridge directly into Sara’s implant, and _you_ fried the programming with time to spare. So why don’t we do that, just…”

He made a triumphant noise and held up a small canister in with his tongs, no larger than an AA battery. “On a slightly larger scale?”

Cisco took the cartridge from Ray, using both hands despite its tiny size, his mouth a round _O_.“Lightweight titanium casing,” he breathed, “leakage-proof sealing, conductible nodes for easy charging —”

Caitlin plucked it from his grasp. “Cisco, _focus_ ,” she admonished, before turning to Ray. “Were you thinking injectors?”

Felicity snapped her fingers. “Like with Slade’s Mirakuru men.”

Ray looked around. “Wait, that was STAR Labs?”

“Long, _long_ story, dude,” Barry said.

Felicity was on her feet and reaching for the canister, turning it over in her hands. “We could deliver nanites intravenously to the mind-controlled agents when they attack us. If I manage to code them with an override hack, they’ll counter the nano-implants, and…” She made a little _poof_ with her hand, problem solved.

“That,” said Cisco, making a finger gun, “we can do. Easy.”

Felicity looked at Ray. “How many units do you have with you, and can you mass-produce?”

Ray drummed his fingers on the ATOM suit’s leg as he thought. His fingers were long and pale, squared off at the edges and just about as fidgety as Oliver’s were still. “Probably not enough to cover Darhk’s army, but we could run tests on what we have, and once we have the right fit, my lab back at Starling can do that in hours — also easy. Wouldn’t be hard to sneak in and run production, seeing as — you know — I’m not wanted as a criminal by the SCPD.”

Felicity gave him a look. “Thanks for the reminder,” she said, before turning to the rest of the group. They were all on their feet now, standing around the whirring ATOM suit. “Is it just me — or did we just come up with an actual plan to stop our super villain?”

Ray glanced at his watch. “And it’s only day one,” he said, and raised his hand to the group. “High five for team-ups!”

Maybe it was all her time working with Oliver and Diggle, but Felicity almost stopped herself from high-fiving Ray, as though her default association for vigilantism was good-looking men standing around with their arms folded and excessively broody foreheads.

Hence, the limp and (frankly) embarrassing attempt at a high-five. She flinched. “That was really lame, wasn’t it?” she said.

“Well…yeah, but we can work on that,” Ray said, with an airy wave. “Oh, and BTW, I could really use your help on my suit. I know it’s asking a lot, but could you —”

“—take a look at the targeting systems —”

“— _and_ maybe the deductive processing functionality, yes.” Ray bowed his head over his clasped hands in relief that she’d understood. “Bearing in mind the total inadequacy of the offer, I solemnly promise to trade you some exercises to loosen up your wrists. Palmer-patented.”

“I mean, anything to help a friend _not_ get blown up, but my wrist _has_ been doing this thing that’s been bugging me…” Felicity held out her arm while he prodded at the appendage with concern. “I’m not sure if it has something to do with my shoulder —”

“— _Felicity_ ,” Barry said abruptly, like he’d started out wanting to say something else but his brain had sidetracked him with other plans (boy, did she know the feeling). “Can I talk to you — over there? About…stuff?”

Sometimes it was harder to tell who was worse at the excuses, Barry or Oliver. Felicity raised her eyebrows at Caitlin, who looked just as weirded out as she did. _No idea,_ she mouthed.

“Be right back,” she said, patting Ray on the shoulder in a signal for him to join Cisco in the nanite test runs. “Try not to blow anything up while I’m gone.”

He jokingly saluted her. “Will do.”

Barry all but towed Felicity straight out the room and into the hallway, marching her there while he shot glances over his shoulder at Ray, like he was worried about being overheard.

“ _Barry Allen_ ,” Felicity said, tugging her sore arm out of his grasp. “What is going on? First you avoid training with the others, and then you look at Ray like he’s — I don’t know — trying to electrocute you for science, or something…what is it? Do you not like him?”

“I’m sure he is —”

“—is it the babbling? Because I’ve seen him shirtless — don’t ask — and I can tell you, he’s basically me in Oliver’s body.” She winced. “A sentence you will _never_ repeat to anyone.”

“I like Ray just _fine_ ,” Barry insisted. “Anyway — no — it’s not about that. _What_ are you doing?”

Felicity blinked at him. “What do you mean, what am I doing? I’m trying to set up Wi-Fi inside a remote Tibetan monastery. What are you doing?”

Barry shook his head vigorously like she was missing the point. “Not… _that_ ,” he said, and folded his arms, looking concerned. “Are things…okay — with you and Oliver?”

Felicity was utterly taken aback by the question. “They were this morning,” she said. “Unless you know something that I don’t. What — did Oliver marry Nyssa while I was setting up the Internet?”

Barry didn’t seem to appreciate her sense of humor. Ouch. “And Ray _knows,_ right? He knows that you and Oliver are…” He made a vague twisty gesture with his hands, probably shadow-puppet language for _couple_.

Felicity pointed at his hands. “Okay…not sure what species of sign language that is, but _yes_ — Ray knows. I mean, he walked in on Oliver and me once at the office, and I’m pretty sure what we were up to left _very_ little room for interpretation. Then again, I did tell him to call me a few months after the wedding, in case things _did_ go south…” She trailed off at Barry’s stricken expression. “Joke — joke. Barry, of course Ray knows that I’m engaged to Oliver. We’re not exactly discreet about it, if you know what I mean — which of course, you do, you called us _nauseating_ back at STAR Labs.”

Barry shot a dubious glance at the open doorway. “He’s not acting like he knows.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I mean…” Barry lifted his shoulders, searching for the words. “It’s the way he acts around you. It’s all banter, and finishing your sentences, and — and he offered to teach you… _wrist exercises_!”

He said it like a brief how-to on orthopedic hand exercises was a euphemism for something unspeakable, and Felicity immediately clapped a hand to her mouth. “ _I know_ ,” she breathed, her eyes wide. “I was shocked too.”

Barry frowned at her. “I’m serious, Felicity. Ray’s a nice guy, but I’ve known Oliver longer and Ray’s acting like he thinks he still has a chance with you. It’s not fair for Oliver —”

Felicity stopped him because she was laughing. “Barry, first of all — Ray doesn’t have feelings for me. We’re friends, and the whole finishing-each-other’s-sentences-thing? It just means we’re so similar that dating Ray would basically be dating myself — which is weird, and _not_ happening. Second of all — did Oliver say something to you? About Ray? You really need to tell me if that’s a _yes_ , because unlike you, Ray doesn’t exactly know that Oliver has a tendency to shoot arrows at his friends.”

Barry raised his eyebrows. “They’re friends? For real?”

Felicity almost shook him. _Not the point_. “Barry…” she began, dangerously.

“Okay, okay.” Barry raised his hands in surrender. “He didn’t say anything, okay? But we both know Oliver isn’t exactly… _in touch_ with his feelings. I can’t tell you how I know this, but Oliver thought that telling me not to go after Iris over coffee was a better idea than telling you how he felt. With that _shining_ example in mind, I just thought I’d help him out a little. You know —”

“Barry Allen,” said Felicity. “Are you actually being jealous _for_ Oliver?”

Barry’s only response was a cough, and Felicity started to laugh again. “You are _such_ a lovable dummy,” she said, patting his face. “Oliver’s very lucky to have you as his wingman. But I am _not_ a prize you need to stand guard over, and I’m pretty sure you’re late for some super assassin training.”

Barry’s expression shifted from concern to alarm. “Uh…pass.”

“No passing,” Felicity said, sternly. “I’ll walk you over after lunch, and I _promise_ that as soon as I see something pointy, I’ll come and save you. Deal?”

Barry sighed, as if acknowledging that arguing with her was a lost cause (smart guy). “Deal,” he said, and they shook on it.

* * *

 “Pitiful,” Nyssa said, blocking Oliver’s swing with effortless ease. “Marriage has softened you, Oliver Queen.”

“It hasn’t,” Oliver rolled his shoulder, flexing the injured muscles despite the sting, “because we’re not married. Not yet.”

Nyssa raised an eyebrow. “I’d always thought of you as an uncomplicated creature — marrying Sa’ida and being a reckless fool in battle always seemed to be the only two thoughts in your thick head.”

Oliver shrugged off the unflattering observation and parried her swing. “No time.”

Is that so?” Their blades crossed and Nyssa leaned close in scrutiny. “You certainly loved her enough to oppose my father, to defy death itself. A reason as mundane as _time_ cannot be the reason.”

“Is this sparring session just a way for you to ask why I haven’t married Felicity yet?” Oliver said. “Because it’s none of your business.”

“Perhaps.” Nyssa’s eyes flashed with amusement and she abruptly twisted her blade, disarming Oliver with a slap of metal.

Oliver tilted his head away from the cold edge of her sword, leveled against his throat. “Or perhaps I simply wished to see how far your technique had lapsed since you left the League,” she said, seemingly oblivious to his stony glare.

Oliver nudged her weapon aside and bent to retrieve his sword. “You’ve made your point,” he said. “I need to train, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“No,” Nyssa corrected him. “Malcolm Merlyn may be the weaker archer, but when you face him in battle he _will_ use his sword to compensate for what skills he lacks with a bow.”

Oliver was taken aback at her uncanny ability to tell what he was thinking.

Nyssa smirked. “You _have_ forgotten many things from your time with the League. Your thoughts show plainly on your face — and I can see that Malcolm Merlyn is on your mind as ever.”

Oliver’s fingers shifted their grip around his sword, flexing in the memory of closing around Malcolm’s throat. “He’s a threat,” he said, shortly. “It’s not the first time he’s gone after Felicity.”

 _And Connor_ , came the surprisingly reflexive thought. His son, threatened by Malcolm as well.

Even if he’d never met his son, Oliver was capable of fighting for him — so that he wouldn’t have to.

“Then fight for them,” Nyssa said, reading him like an open book. “Your beloved makes you strong, and Malcolm is a fool if he thinks he can use that against you.”

It was one of the kindest things Nyssa had ever said to Oliver, and they exchanged smiles over their drawn blades.

“Now,” she said, rapidly businesslike again. “It’s time you remembered what it means to face a member of the League, and win.”

* * *

 “ _Wow_ , that’s heavy,” Felicity said through her teeth, adjusting her grip on the handgun.

“That’s what a gun loaded with _bullets_ feels like,” Diggle answered, and tapped her elbow. “Remember to keep that bent.”

Felicity shot him a look over her shoulder. “Don’t sass me,” she said, trying not to smile because it made her look like a psycho when she had a gun in her hands. “It’s unflattering.”

Diggle chuckled and stood back, seemingly satisfied with her shooting stance. They were in one of the many weapon rooms in Nanda Parbat, one stocked with racks of swords, blades, and spears, stands draped with dark waterfalls of silk (for strangling or for ceiling-to-floor transfers — Felicity had seen them used both ways), and a plenty of straw dummies to line up along the far wall.

And privacy, which was a polite euphemism for the fact that their Firearm Refresher was strictly hush-hush (i.e. Oliver didn’t know, and Felicity didn’t plan on letting him know, not for the time being, anyway).

“That’s not bad,” Diggle remarked. “I’m glad you still remember how to hold a gun.”

Felicity was fighting the ridiculous urge to fidget, which meant that her babble-o-meter was on full blast. “Oh, holding — I’m good with. I can hold the _hell_ out of a gun. It’s just the actual _hitting things_ part I’m not too great at, but don’t sweat the small stuff, right?”

“Sure,” he deadpanned. “I’ve never heard anyone call hitting the target minor, but why not?”

“ _Again_ with the sass.” Felicity shook her head in mock weariness and turned back to face the line of faceless straw men. “I don’t know where you picked that up, really, I don’t.”

“Same place I picked up the know-how on setting up the Wi-Fi at my house,” Diggle said, and she saw him take a step back in her peripheral vision. “Absolutely nowhere.”

Felicity grinned at the row of targets, unable to stop herself. “You’re welcome,” she said, and fired.

It was the first shot, and the sound of it reverberated along the stone walls, ringing in her ears until she drew her second breath, to replace the one she’d held at the exact moment she squeezed the trigger.

There was a small ragged hole in the corner of a straw dummy’s torso, charred black, as small as an inkblot from where she was standing. Dismal aim, and it was only her first try.

“That’s not important.” Diggle sounded almost concerned. “How do you feel?”

Felicity flexed her fingers one by one, feeling them hum with adrenaline coursing through her veins, a confusing clash of thought and instinct, moving forward and standing still, good and bad.

Good, because she didn’t feel like a girl behind a computer screen. Not now.

Bad, because having a gun in her hands meant that she wasn’t a girl behind a computer screen, not anymore.

Maybe she didn’t want to be.

The girl with the glasses, sitting behind the computer screen, she would never have even _considered_ the possibility of picking up a gun and defending herself against someone, much less a someone who had 50% to do with her genetic identity. _Revenge of the Nerds_ -style payback, probably. But not an actual live gun.

Then again, the girl with the glasses working eighteen floors down from the (admittedly cute) CEO of Queen Consolidated would never have gotten involved with a vigilante, fought a war with some very deadly assassins, or decimated the mainframe of a secret spy organization using a destructive computer virus.

Talking to Diggle had made her forget that the target was meant to be Damien Darhk, and she was weirdly grateful for it, even if she had truly terrible aim. Because at least she knew it was _hers_ , not a weakness from imagining her own father at the other end of the barrel.

“I feel…like myself,” she said, firmly. “This is me now.”

Diggle nodded. “Good,” he said.

* * *

The bells (who knew the assassin monastery had _bells_?) tolled four times, signaling that they’d been practicing for an hour. Felicity puffed a loose strand of hair off her face and scrutinized the line of targets across the room. She’d graduated from nicks and grazes to actual body hits, albeit in the arms, mostly.

Still, that was progress, considering the fact that she’d gone from causing minor annoyances to wounding.

But Felicity’s arms were shot through (pun intended) with stray twitches, her muscles aching in protest from the weight of the gun.

“Nice work,” said Diggle, taking the gun from her before she let her stiff arms sag onto a table. “You’re a quick learner.”

“You’re a better teacher,” she corrected, trying to massage the life back into her arms.

In hindsight, she really should have thought this one through. Oliver was admittedly a terrible liar, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t good at seeing through all kinds of excuses, and she’d have to come up with a pretty convincing one to explain away the lack of arm usage at dinner.

Maybe she could tell him that feeding her was _the_ thing to do for couples.

“Or,” Diggle said, obviously sensing where her train of thought was headed, “you could just tell him.”

It wasn’t a suggestion they both took seriously, given their knowledge of Oliver’s stance when it came to Felicity taking the risks he felt he was entitled first dibs on. Heck, if anyone knew about spheres of influence in a marriage, it was Diggle. Lyla ran a secret spy organization, and he was responsible for half of the inmates in Iron Heights.

That was quite the record for a few secrets safely kept, or — if she was feeling especially literal — omitted from the conversation.

Felicity shook her head. “I am _not_ telling Oliver —”

“Tell me what?”

With all the guns and twenty-first century computer equipment she’d been setting up all day, Felicity had almost forgotten some of the timeless elements to the League of Assassins.

Namely, their ability to crop up without a sound, utterly without warning.

A skill Oliver was well capable of exercising in full, whatever his disagreements with the previous leadership.

Oliver stepped inside the room and shut the door with a careful, controlled grace.

“Tell me what?” he repeated, even though Felicity was sure he already knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, incredibly sorry that the chapters are so late. Apparently I had more time to write when I was in school. ’Tis also awkward to write fan fiction with family at my elbow, but whatever. That’s what the screen dimmer button on my laptop is for. Pshhh saving battery, it’s to stop my family from reading the weird things I make Oliver and Felicity do to each other.
> 
> TBC...when you click the next page.


	52. Firsts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might want to cover your eyes or skip at a certain point in this chapter. You'll know when. Really, really.

Felicity put out her hand to stop Diggle from answering for her, because it was — it _was_ her choice. Even though Oliver finding out hadn’t been part of the plan, ruminating on that detail was now an excessive waste of time. “Dig’s teaching me how to shoot,” she said, not proud, not scornful, but the truth.

Oliver looked from Diggle to her, and their eyes met with a shiver when he did. They weren’t blazing with anger, or cold with disappointment, they were just… _just_ —

Flat. It was the expression Oliver had when he was concealing what he really felt, when he was trying not to say, or do something he’d regret.

“I can’t believe…” he began, and jerked his head like he’d had to curb some destructive impulse. It was a short, furious battle for control, and when Oliver spoke again, his voice had dropped to a level barely above a whisper. He looked right at Diggle, and Felicity thought she’d caught a flicker of hurt. “I didn’t think that you of all people would be okay with this.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Felicity snapped, because even to her it seemed like a low blow, but Diggle only folded his arms and stepped forward, until he was almost shoulder-to-shoulder with Oliver.

“I understand what you’re feeling, man,” he said, in a quiet voice. His head was turned towards Oliver, and he was speaking to him in confidence, with understanding. “But don’t. Don’t pretend that you don’t get why I agreed to help her, after Andy.”

Oliver stared at Diggle, and he stared right back. Years of camaraderie and shared secrets meant that nothing else needed to be said, and in that long, not-quite-awful silence, Felicity felt the strength of a friendship being tested.

Oliver was the one who yielded.

“John,” he said, “could I have a minute alone with Felicity, please?”

His politeness made her warier still, but she nodded when Diggle raised his eyebrows at her. “Thank you, John,” she added. “For the lesson.”

The _I’m-okay_ smile slid off her face like water as soon as Diggle turned his back. The door creaked open, but it never closed.

“Last time I checked,” Diggle said to him, “she makes her own choices, man.”

Then he was gone.

The heavy door shut with a jarring crank, a sound that made Felicity dig her fingers into the wooden table for support. Oliver’s hand still rested on the black iron handle, and she saw him close his eyes — another brief, furious battle for control — before opening them again.

Felicity felt her back straighten, and the irrepressible tremor in her hands from the adrenaline rising in her blood again.

They were going to fight, and Felicity knew it.

Oliver finally faced her, and Felicity lifted her chin, defiantly standing her ground.

“What are you doing?” he asked, and it was like the starting pistol had fired.

* * *

 

_What are you doing?_

If — and it was a big _if_ — Felicity still had her sense of humor, she would have found it funny, being asked the exact same question for the second time that day. First by Barry, now by Oliver. Before that single, awful moment of Oliver walking into the room, Felicity had imagined telling him the story at the end of the day, how Barry — adorkable, in every sense of the word — had been sweet enough to be jealous _for_ him. She’d imagined them lying together in bed, Oliver’s arm around her shoulders, a comfortable solid weight, holding her reassuringly close to him as they whispered under the cover of night — exchanging secrets about the day they’d just had.

She would have laughed at his stories and he would have laughed at hers, alternating between words and kisses until sleep carried them away, leaving them safe in each others’ arms until the morning.

Unfortunately, humor was in short supply when every muscle in her body was drawn as tight as piano wire, and all thoughts of laughing with Oliver evaporated as soon as she saw his face.

Felicity looked at Oliver like she couldn’t imagine what there was left to say, under the heading of _what-am-I-doing_.

But it was soon apparent from the silence, and Oliver’s unwavering gaze, that he actually wanted her to answer. So she did.

“Evidently, something you _think_ you can tell me not to do,” she said.

Humor — while in short supply — had been displaced by a (probably) destructive level of snark, frequent appearer in her regular life, during super villain confrontations, and pointed conversations with disagreeing fiancés.

Oliver gave her a sharp look, as if playing the _you-can’t-order-me-around_ card was a low blow, because he wasn’t that person with her — even though he’d certainly tried, before they were a _something_ , before he’d found out that she was completely and utterly capable of throwing it back in his face.

Felicity was sticking by that gun, figuratively speaking, and he knew it.

“I’m not telling you to do, or not do, anything,” Oliver said, again in that carefully controlled voice. “I’m just…surprised that you of all people think walking up to Darhk with a loaded gun is a smart move.”

“It’s not a _move_ ,” Felicity said, stepping forward without meaning to. She pushed off of the table edge and found herself reaching for Oliver, to calm him instinctively with her touch.

“Oliver, learning to defend myself — like you and Diggle and Roy know how to — is something _I_ want to do.”

The door rattled behind Oliver’s shoulder, emphasizing the fact that he’d taken a step back — _away_ from her, just about as far as he could go. Felicity stopped short, stung by his reluctance.

“ _Oliver_ ,” she said, but he shook his head. _No_.

“That’s not it, Felicity, and you know it,” he said, in a low voice. “This is about Darhk. This is about your father, and how afraid you are that he’s going to hurt the people you love. That’s why you want a gun in your hand, and you didn’t tell me about it because you knew I’d see right through you.”

“And what’s so wrong with that?” Felicity responded. “You _know_ what it means to fight for love — _you_ , of all people, know what it means to be fearless because you’re fighting to protect the people who matter. How does that make my actions any less justified than yours?”

Oliver started to speak, broke off with a sound of frustration, and Felicity watched him pass a hand over his eyes before he spoke again.

“I know how you feel about your father,” he said. “But if you have your finger on the trigger then you’re not thinking straight. You’re not seeing any other way — except killing him. You promised me you’d think about it.”

“I _did_ ,” Felicity said, and she wasn’t lying.

A pause, during which Oliver’s gaze swept across the room, taking in the handguns laid out on the table in front of Felicity, the straw dummies lying haphazardly along the wall, and the bullet holes marking her improved aim.

“This doesn’t look like weighing your options,” he said, and it had the cadence of an accusation.

Felicity felt her temper flare.

“I’ve weighed, and I’ve thought, and I’ve struggled.” The bones in her hand cricked in the tight fists she’d balled them into, and her throat felt tight, like she wanted to scream. “I’m tired of standing still,” she said, letting the weariness creep into her words. “I’m tired of turning in circles, of having the same arguments repeated, over and over again — I’ve _chosen_. I’m going to fight as hard as I can, and that’s all there is. I want to protect you, to protect everybody.”

“I don’t need protecting,” Oliver said, without hesitation.

“He shot you in the arm.”

“And I’m dealing with that.”

“How?” She threw up her arms. “How is that any different from what I’m doing — dealing with it?”

“Because he’s _your father_ , Felicity!” Oliver shouted, and she nearly — very nearly — flinched, because she couldn’t remember the last time he had raised his voice at her. “You can’t just — kill — him without repercussions. You may think it’s the right thing to do, that it’s the only thing to do. But you’re not thinking about yourself, about what taking a life does — what it’s _going to do_ — to your soul!”

Felicity caught her breath at the word — at the admission of what he really thought about her decision. That it was a reflection on her soul, and that he’d judge her for it.

“It’s not that simple,” she said, feeling the blood drain from her face as she formed the words. “You know that about us, Oliver — nothing’s ever that simple.”

“No, Felicity, if anything was ever simple — it’s this,” Oliver insisted. “You’re trying to kill your father because you think it’s the only way he’s left you with, but you know — you have to know — that killing him…it’ll change you.”

The harsh lines in Oliver’s face softened, and she could tell that his outburst had startled him too. It was as close to an apology as she’d get — right then. “I’m trying to protect you,” he said.

Felicity only looked at him, hearing the words — his words — ringing in her head. “Like you said…I don’t need protecting, and you can’t keep me from learning how to shoot.”

Oliver jerked his head in warning. His hands were curled tight by his sides, his throat working in visible frustration to restrain himself from saying something he’d — they’d — regret.

Then — he did.

“You are _not_ going anywhere near Darhk with a gun.”

Felicity laughed, a furious _HA_ in response to what felt like a desperate Hail Mary on his part. “And what makes you think you can stop me?” she demanded.

Oliver crossed his arms in front of his chest, reminding her that he could be as stubborn as she was. “You’re untrained,” he reminded her.

“Not _that_ untrained, and I’m in charge of the mission plan,” she reminded _him_.

“You’re my partner.”

“On _equal footing_ — what’s your point?”

“You’re my wife.”

Felicity raised her eyes to the ceiling. “ _Also_ on equal footing — hello, twenty-first century — and not yet.”

“Whose fault is that?” Oliver snapped, and the resentment in it — however impulsive — rang of truth.

Felicity tossed her hair back from her face and fixed a glare on him from her end of the room. She knew — God, she knew — that Oliver was frustrated, and so was she. But he didn’t get to say that. “Screw you,” she said, in a furious whisper. “You don’t get to play that card. I wanted City Hall as much as you did. I still do.”

“Do you still trust me?” Oliver asked, and the question took her aback. “Because it doesn’t feel like you do — not anymore.”

Oh. For. The. Love. Of —

“You think I don’t trust you just because I’m trying to protect you?” Felicity was shouting now, because _what — the — frack_. “How many times? How many times have you kept one of your plans from me — _because_ you wanted to protect me? How many times have you pulled that trick, and how many times have I trusted you — even though you kept me out of the loop?”

Oliver jerked his head. “Felicity —”

“ _How_ ,” she said, “ _many_.”

“Every time,” he growled. “But this is different.”

It was Felicity’s turn to shake her head. If he was going to tell her the harsh truths, so would she. “It’s different because I’m the one keeping you out of it,” she said, steadily. “I’ve been there, and it doesn’t feel good. But I would _never_ hold that against you. I’m sorry, Oliver, I didn’t tell you from the beginning, but don’t — _don’t_ — blame me because I chose the option you happen to like the least.”

Oliver didn’t say anything for the longest time. Then again, neither did she. This wasn’t anything like their old fights, as partners on the same team. Back then, it had been a quiet apology and an acceptance, which was less — infinitely less — than what they had at stake now, being together, planning a marriage and expecting a life with each other. They’d shared fears and confidences and old wounds. With that kind of intimacy came an instinctive — and all too easy — knowledge of where the other hurt, and how to make them hurt.

They’d opened wounds in each other already, and now their stalemate held, the echoes of their raised voices long gone but too vivid to forget, two halves of a broken whole on their respective sides of the line.

Felicity felt a stray ache in her chest, as if it was a real, physical pain to be at odds over something as fundamental as this. She backed away first, if only to keep the figurative line from becoming an unbridgeable rift between them.

“I’m going back to our room,” she said, intent on getting out through the door behind him. “If I hit you with a stony silence when you get in — assume it means _I don’t want to talk_.”

Felicity had the handle now, and she waited for Oliver to move aside.

Still he didn’t, not a muscle, and it forced a quick, frustrated sound from between her teeth. She yanked on the door, but it only budged an inch before Oliver’s weight shoved it back closed again.

Felicity had always known Oliver was strong, but not looking at him, trying to open the door again, she was reminded of the fact — and she wasn’t sure how she felt about it.

Scratch that, she knew exactly how she felt.

His strength made her feel small by contrast, something it had never used to do, and she didn’t like it. But with this realization came the quicksilver flashes of memory, the stirrings of tamped-down instinct, about how Oliver’s strength had always made her feel safe. It reminded her of how easily he’d lifted her the night before, and countless nights before that. It reminded her of how light she’d always felt in his arms, of the easy trust in having them bear her weight, and the surprising freedom of having them pressed on either sides of her, a cage formed by his arms as he made love to her in their bed.

It was an endless, excruciating confusion, and even though Felicity knew the absolute last constructive thing to do was _that_ , she wasn’t sure her body completely agreed.

“Let me out,” she ordered, resolutely avoiding his eyes.

Oliver didn’t move. “No,” he answered. “Not until we talk about this.”

Felicity laughed, again without humor. “You mean _until I sing your tune_ ,” she said, impatiently cutting through the subtext. “But we both know that’s never going to happen, so let me out.”

“ _No_.”

She rounded on him, the words tumbling out of her in a defensive rush. “You’re just like him,” she snarled. “You both think you know who I am. He thinks I’m Felicity Darhk, and you think I’m Felicity Queen. Well, screw you both, because you _don’t_ , you really don’t. Now get out of my way, Oliver Queen, or so help me _God_ —”

Felicity broke off when she sensed Oliver’s movement in the corner of her eye. But nothing could have prepared her for the abrupt press of his fingertips on her chin, the pull of them turning her towards him, and the single unbroken movement in which he’d bent his head and kissed her mid-sentence, hard.

* * *

Felicity had expected her mind to go blank, wiped clean by surprise.

It didn’t.

Her instincts were literally no help at all. Part of her wanted to curl her arms behind Oliver’s neck and kiss him back, while the other — while similarly fixated on his neck — was plumping pretty heavily for the throttling option.

It all led back to the hard press of Oliver’s mouth on hers. It was demanding and tasted sharply of frustrated emotions, the kind that surpassed any words either of them could bring to mind, the same frustration that made her want to part her lips and welcome this momentary invasion.

Oliver had never kissed her like this before. Their intimacy had never been this confusing, this startling, and it had never followed a fight like the one they’d just had, because that (funnily enough) was just as much a first as the way Oliver was kissing her.

Anger welled up again — at his stubbornness, their unfinished fight, the things they’d said…and the things they’d hadn’t.

_I’m sorry, but I wanted to protect you._

_I love you and I trust you._

One was more important than the other, but somehow the lesser of the two had been a weapon thrown in the other’s face. So was this, in its own way. Kissing her to end the fight, like he was expecting her to melt — to _yield_ , just like that.

Instead of a torrent of icy water, all Felicity felt was a surge of anger when she tore her mouth from Oliver’s with a gasp and slapped him across the face.

It was rapidly becoming a day of firsts. They’d never fought like this before, he’d never kissed her like that before, and she’d never — ever — hit him like she just did. It was a blow with the flat of her hand, not meant to be hard — Felicity wasn’t nearly venomous enough for that — but she could tell that it had surprised him from the way his head snapped backward. The shock was the real force behind his reaction, and Felicity — her chest heaving from the breaths stolen by the sudden kiss — drew her hand back, completely on instinct, to slap him again.

Because she was so, _goddamn_ ready to rip his throat out. Or tear his clothes off. Just — _something_.

Oliver caught her by the wrist before she could follow through with the swing and yanked, making Felicity stumble forward — into him — as the side of her forearm thudded against his shirt, pinned by his grip.

Felicity felt his breath in her ear and the heat from his body and the racing pulse of his heart in his chest. He’d been training with Nyssa — she could smell the fresh air on him, and the tang of male sweat on his skin, along with something a little more ineffable, one that brought on a rush of responsiveness somewhere in her belly. Even though her face was still stubbornly downturned, she didn’t need to look Oliver in the eye for one unguarded moment of truth to reveal the want blazing white-hot between them. With everything that had just been said and done, they couldn’t be this close without tearing each other’s clothes off, without having their hands on each other, without this furious, insane, _need_.

Case in point — she wanted to rip his head off, but she also wanted him inside her. She wanted to push him against the door he wouldn’t let her leave by and kiss his smooth, muscled chest. She wanted not to think, not to talk, and just have him — completely.

Felicity very nearly couldn’t breathe when she finally lifted her eyes to Oliver’s face, and saw him looking at her like he’d realized the exact same thing, just about five minutes earlier.

“Kiss me,” she said, and he completely — one hundred percent — did.

* * *

Oliver wasn’t entirely certain why he’d done it. He’d acted so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that even he hadn’t had time to reach a conclusion. One moment, Felicity had been glaring at the door behind his shoulder, doggedly avoiding his eye, and the next, her mouth had been warm and open under his.

The only sound Felicity managed to make was an inarticulate murmur of surprise. He heard it in his ears still — among other things. The creak of the wood panels behind Felicity’s back, the grinding of the door’s iron hinges every time his thrusting into her shuddered the frame, the small, silky sound their bodies made against each other at the single point of joining.

A bead of sweat traced a path down the side of Felicity’s neck and slid between her breasts. Oliver put his mouth to it — tasting salt and something sweet — and felt her spine go rigid, instantaneous as a jolt of electricity.

Her hands groped blindly for either side of the protruding frame, fingernails scratching the wood varnish every time their movements threw her off balance again. Oliver gathered her wrists and pinned them over her head with one hand, pulling her leg higher with the other to spread her wide.

Felicity moaned and her head dipped back to knock against the door. Oliver bent to her exposed throat without missing a beat, claiming the already-flushed skin of her neck with his lips. It made her squirm, and he bit her — not hard, but not gently, either — just below the ear as a reminder to keep still.

This was new to Oliver. He’d always been gentle, even in urgency, and so had she. A part of him had always touched Felicity with reverence instead of possession, still in disbelief that he’d been so lucky — to have someone like her love him, accept him, and want him.

He’d never pinned her like this, he’d never used his strength the way he did now, and he’d never inched this close to the indistinct separation between pain and pleasure. It was sudden, it was heady, and it surprised him how much she seemed not to mind — if anything, how furiously she seemed to take from him.

Because every time he slowed, Felicity clenched her knees tighter still behind his back and wordlessly brought him closer, deeper. She twisted at the waist and met him thrust for thrust, writhing with feverish gasps instead of the sighs he was used to hearing in his ear.

Even though their bodies seemed to fit together with wordless confidence, their kisses were insatiable with frustration and silent fury. Their foreheads mashed and their burning cheeks grazed, all between heated breaths and irrepressible groans, between kisses hard enough to leave bruised mouths and tender skin in the morning.

The root of it was their frustration with each other. It charged this — whatever it was — with fight rather than reconciliation, fierce with the knowledge that they still wanted each other with a passion, despite an utter refusal to back down on both sides. Oliver was being deliberately rough because Felicity had broken a promise she’d made, putting a gun in her hand like it was somehow going to make her choices clear, instead of considering the real consequences her choice with Darhk might have on her soul.

Oliver knew what it felt like to have a gun in his hand. Souls — much less his own — were unlikely to be a concern when he had his finger on the trigger and the source of the threat at his feet. It would be Felicity’s first kill, and _if_ she made that choice, he wanted her to be very sure — because the first was always the one that lingered, the one that would shape the hand holding the gun.

For all the complexities that had led them to this moment, there were moments of remarkable simplicity. Oliver didn’t know how to make Felicity listen, so he took her furiously against the door, because after the secret she hadn’t wanted to tell him, maybe he needed to feel something honest between them again.

 _This_ — the way she opened to him, the way she fought to get closer — wasn’t a lie, however angry they still were with each other.

Emboldened by the realization, Oliver relinquished his grip on Felicity’s wrists and slid his hands low to cup her. She made a noise low in her throat and arched against him, hard enough to push them off the wall altogether.

Carrying her, he nearly lost his balance over their discarded clothes and bumped carelessly into a rack of weapons, grabbing another for support. It toppled with a blinding crash, and a sharp edge nicked his back, another his leg — but he didn’t care. Felicity’s kisses were languorously deep, blinding him to anything but the insistent claim of her mouth on his.

A whisper of silk, a rattle of wood…their hips bumped against a hard edge — a table — and Oliver swept his arm across to clear the surface before he lowered her onto it. Felicity made a faint noise of dissent when they came apart, her fingers curling around his head as if to tug him back towards her.

Oliver shook his head once, determinedly following a path down Felicity’s stomach and belly with his mouth. She twisted her hips and he gripped her, stilling her with his open palms before kneeling between her parted legs.

A moment of stillness. Oliver lifted his head and met Felicity’s heated gaze. Neither of them said a word, and the ferocity of their common stubbornness seared whatever space left between them with a wordless challenge.

Slow and deliberate, Oliver drew his cheek along the inside of her thigh, feeling both the frantic rhythm of her pulse beneath her silky skin and the helpless shudder it teased out in her, this reminder that he was between her legs.

Felicity bit her lip and let her head drop back, her arms flung out above her head in a gesture of utter abandon as Oliver bent to her.

* * *

Felicity didn’t remember exactly _when_ she’d lost her clothes, when she’d stopped feeling self-conscious about the sounds she was making, or even when she’d ever learned to lie still.

Every dart and flicker of Oliver’s tongue sent a delicious shudder up her spine, a flash of pure heat behind her eyes that almost — almost — sent her to pieces. Felicity’s hands scraped varnished wood in her clumsy search for handholds, brushing instead a watery cascade of silk.

There was something she should have remembered about it. A row of silks. Weapons room. Nanda Parbat.

The table creaked, and her hands twisted tight into the silk when he teased the delicate center, the source of the unstoppable tremors between her legs. Her arms were shot with trembling, her joints traitorously yielding from the remembered passion of her encounters with Oliver.

Felicity wasn’t going to beg. She absolutely was _not_ going to make a sound — _ah_ —

Her head thudded against wood and she bucked, her hips struggling against his hands to rise off the table surface, an instinctive response — the _only_ response — to what was going on. Oliver kept her pinned down, with a single-minded possessiveness that was startling because of its novelty, and because of how much she responded to it.

The rack of silks creaked ominously, the lengths of whispering fabric following a steady rhythm of swell and dip every time Felicity moved with Oliver, oblivious to everything except the feeling of his body on hers.

No, they weren’t short on passion today, not by a long shot, but for the record, she was still freaking pissed at him. So she was learning to shoot a gun. So she was learning to defend herself, in case she _did_ get a chance. So she hadn’t strictly speaking told him.

So. Freaking. What.

Felicity felt the rebelliousness blaze bright inside her as she pushed her legs closed, forcing him to come to her. She heard his grunt of frustration and the insistent pull of his hands on her thighs, but she gripped his shoulders — careless, too careless in light of their recent injuries — and dragged him into her arms.

The insides of her thighs were already slippery, and a single thrust of her hips brought them together again. They groaned in unison, and Felicity reared up from the table, clashing her mouth to Oliver’s before either of them could catch their breath. She tasted blood — whether his lip or hers, she didn’t care — as they tumbled limb over limb in a mindless struggle, one that ended with her pinning Oliver to the table while she rode him without stopping.

The table’s wooden limbs squeaked and cricked under the strain of their savage movements, very nearly drowning out the muffled slap of flesh on flesh and the involuntary sounds made when the human body drew close to its limit. Each harsh gasp and moan from him was a small victory, a push for her to go further, harder — despite knowing that it might shatter her completely.

Felicity had given up on holding Oliver down, because in their current state of preoccupation, anything less than a world-ending earthquake was unlikely to tear them apart, and maybe not even then. His broad palms burned into her hips, along the furrow of her spine, curling last into her hair and tugging with each shared movement, as if to say _mine, all mine_. She twisted against him, grinding their hips together as if she was daring him to do his worst.

Felicity’s hands skidded numbly across the table surface, slipping on the crumpled trails of silk left over from before, and she curled her fingertips into the fabric without thought as they entered the final — and all too brief — territory between frustration and release.

They were moving together still, but with the riot of sensations dominating her body, Felicity wasn’t sure if either of them were capable of thinking anymore. In those breathless, desperate moments, it seemed like they were being driven by a shared instinct to _be_ with each other, rightness, pure and simple — in spite of it all.

Oliver came first, in a series of rapid thrusts that took him deeper still, until she could feel the shudders too, in the depths of her belly and between her legs, like they — for the briefest moment — shared the same body. He was heavy-headed and obedient when Felicity turned his face away from her neck and tilted his chin up so she could kiss him, moving all the while. She tasted the salt of her sweat on his tongue and the stirrings of sweeter, older memories resurfacing in the midst of a fading storm.

It was those memories she held firmly in her mind, at the end.

The moment itself was a savage implosion behind her eyes and Felicity cried out, yanking on the cloth so hard that the rack crashed heavily into the table, engulfing them both in a slippery rush of silk.

Felicity’s body somehow felt both weightless and lead-heavy, a sensation easy to overcome only in theory. She used the last of her energy to roll off of Oliver, who seemed just about as inert as she was about to be.

Lying flat on the table, the tips of her toes just brushed the floor and the side of her arm pressed lightly against Oliver’s. Felicity pulled a length of crumpled silk away from her eyes, her damp skin feeling unbearably hot in comparison to the slippery fabric.

Sleeping in the same bed as someone for the better part of a year meant that she knew what Oliver asleep sounded like, and she could tell immediately from the sound of his breathing that he was just as awake as she was.

It was a silence uninterrupted by the slow recovery of their breath, laid out side by side with sweat cooling on their bodies, the scent and static heat of what they’d done lingering in the air.

Felicity stared at the tiny cracks in the ceiling, trying to decide if there was a real chance that the not-talking was due to a fascination with the architecture.

One of the cracks looked a little bit like a badger, but otherwise, unlikely.

Straightening her arm, she let the backs of their hands graze, brushing her skin across the small bumps of Oliver’s knuckles, sensing the almost-alignment of their finger joints, and the telltale twitch of his fingertips that meant he could feel it too…

One of them had to make the first move, after all.

“Feel better?” she asked, her hand against his. Together and apart.

Oliver exhaled, slow and deep. “Not really,” he answered, his eyes on the ceiling.

In spite of everything, Felicity found it just a little bit funny. “Good,” she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weeeell, on that note, I’m actually surprised that I made her slap him. Eh, what can I say - felt like she wanted to. Now that I think about it, I’m slapping a lot of people in these updates. P.S.: Gutter buddies, you really need to stop encouraging me.  
> Spain’s beautiful, I have tan lines now (yayyyy) and with the number of cathedrals I’ve visited it’s a wonder that chapter 52 exists at all. Then again, I’ve had a decent amount of sangria and cava, so…  
> You’re probably going to despise me, but I’m heading to Cape Cod to visit a friend after this, which means the two chapters per two weeks might actually be a thing for a bit (sorry, sorry, so sorry). I swear I’m not drunk when I say I love you guys, whether you get super irritated with me or not. Your comments are always lovely and funny and so much more thoughtful than this fic deserves. It’s a thrill to hear how much you love Oliver and Felicity and Team Arrow. Based on the comments alone, a lot of you should be turning ideas into fics or scripting for the show. Sinceriously, you guys are the absolute best. You spoil me with your thoughts, and I can’t thank you enough.  
> But I’m certainly going to try :)  
> \- Chronicolicity


	53. Something Else

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating in time for the 4th of July weekend (not that it should matter to most of you, I'm just in the States right now, so...) :D  
> Also, lovely feedback on the angry sex. Glad you guys enjoyed yourselves ;)

"So _that_ happened," Felicity said, after what felt like an appropriate amount of heavy breathing and awkward-slash-resentful silence.

Oliver — like her — was still lying on his back, without a stitch of clothing on him, flat on the table they'd for-lack-of-better-word defiled. Facing the ceiling, he gave no sign that he'd heard her — which was a first, and so very unconvincing, since Felicity was pretty sure his hearing was good enough to pick up a fairy whisper.

If fairy whispers existed, which they probably didn't.

God, she was tired. There was a part of her currently passed out facedown from what they'd just done, the Felicity Smoak equivalent of a year's worth of cardio.

"I'm guessing you didn't do _that_ the last time you were in Nanda Parbat," she mumbled, absently chafing at a spread of silk. "At least — I hope not. From a fiancée's standpoint…I mean."

Oliver released a heavy sigh. "We shouldn't have done that," he said, disentangling himself from the nest of fabric.

Felicity watched him sit up, unsurprised by his brusqueness. Having sex was one thing, but having it during-slash-instead-of an argument was probably ill-advised (exhibit A), as far as solving problems was concerned. If they could call that _sex_ , because Felicity was pretty sure there was a ruder word in the English language for what they'd just done.

She raised herself on one elbow and deliberately traced one of the fresh scratches along his back with her fingertips. Oliver stiffened slightly at her touch, but turned to look at her over his shoulder. "Didn't seem like you were complaining," she remarked.

Oliver didn't smile. He looked like he'd forgotten how. "You too," he answered, and she felt his hand on the inside of her thigh, thumb and fingers lining up perfectly with the reddish-pink marks where he'd gripped her, lifted her.

They were still touching when their eyes met.

Felicity felt the immutable pull of old habits, the tender things she was used to doing with Oliver — after. She'd kiss his scarred shoulder, maybe his neck, and he'd put his lips to her forehead, or maybe smooth down the impressively haphazard tangles her hair had worked itself into. Neither of them would want to sleep, not just yet, because sleep was losing a few more hours to dreams — not all of them kind. So they'd lie in bed, Oliver orienting himself around Felicity without needing to be asked, playing with her hair or their entwined fingers while Felicity whispered to him…and when he laughed, she'd lean her head on his arm and smile up at him, sleepily, lazily. Sometimes she'd rest her head above his heartbeat, listening to the comforting _thud-thud_ as she explored his scars, gliding her fingertips over the healed skin, counting each one of them like they were night prayers, that Oliver had lived — and would live — through anything. That he would always come home to her. Late, too late, they'd finally settle into each other for sleep, either face to face or with his head comfortably heavy in the curve of her neck, his arms around her waist.

Most of all, they'd laugh. Sometimes it was over nothing, nothing at all, or the single wordless look one of them would give the other. They'd smile like they were shy — because they still could be, after all this time — and kiss again, sweetly, softly…undemanding because there was no claim to make on each other, because there was only the bond between them being reaffirmed, not a score to settle.

Not today. Not this time. Felicity could still feel the bruising pressure of Oliver's lips, and the evidence of it all over her body. Every inch of her ached, and her pride still felt the sting of everything they'd said to each other. They'd done enough damage for one day. The magnetic pull was still there, and it would always be, but the mess of the weapons room — daggers and swords and smashed furniture — it was a reminder of what they were too weak to fight. It was a reminder of what the wanting could do, what it _would_ do, with the shards of their unresolved spat lingering beneath their feet like razored glass.

Felicity let her hand fall back to the table surface, and after a pause, Oliver withdrew his hand too. "I lost control," he said, his back stiff and straight, the vivid scars on it reminding her of all the times she'd followed them with the tips of her fingers, and he'd let her.

"It won't happen again," Oliver said, and it sounded like a promise.

Without waiting for her response, he slid from the table and walked across the room to the pile of their discarded clothing while Felicity watched silently, leaning on one elbow. He picked through the pile of clothing with methodical efficiency, tossing what was hers with surprising good aim given the fact that he wasn't looking at her.

Felicity caught a handful of pale fabric and paused, staring at the shreds of what was clearly meant to have been her shirt. "What was _that_ supposed to be?" she said, even though she had a vague recollection of Oliver tearing it off of her in the heat of the moment. Because that amount of damage done to a garment deserved _some_ form of recognition, at least.

Oliver had the good grace to look mildly ashamed. "Sorry," he said, especially since his own shirt was unscathed. "You can stay here — I'll go back to the room and bring you something."

Felicity gave the suggestion a perfunctory once-over. Staying in a wrecked room, without any clothes, waiting for Oliver to bring her some. God forbid that anyone come in — because she was pretty sure they'd broken the bolt on the door — they'd basically find her camping out at the scene of the crime, tellingly undressed.

She _really_ didn't want to find out Nyssa's policy on property damage, much less indecent exposure.

Even though her whole body stiffly protested the movement, she pushed off the table and landed barefoot on the stones, the impact tingling all the way up her ankles. Oliver eyed her curiously, even more so when she stretched out her hand.

"Give me your shirt," she said, in what she hoped was a normal voice. "We're walking."

* * *

Seventeen odd looks from the seventeen unwitting people they'd passed in the hallway. Felicity was keeping count.

Not because Oliver was famous within the League, or anything. Not because he was the guy who'd defied Ra's al Ghul, been resurrected by a mystical hot tub…not even because he was part of the group of strangers warmly welcomed by Nyssa as old friends.

Nope, it was because Oliver Queen was currently walking the corridors of Nanda Parbat without a shirt, since the rumpled garment — missing a few buttons — was wrapped around Felicity's shoulders.

 _Nothing to see here_ , she imagined herself saying, with an airy wave. _Just a little difference of opinion. No priceless ancient antiques were harmed in the making of this mess._

Even in her head it was hard to sell that as a minor by-product of their couple's disagreement, not with the few bruises, an open cut or two, and Felicity's clothes bearing an uncanny resemblance to rags.

She didn't even want to _think_ about the underwear situation.

Felicity's count reached eighteen. "Well," she said, running her hand through the raised tangles in her hair, "this isn't awkward at all."

Oliver didn't slow his pace, but she sensed his sidelong appraisal. "You could have waited for me to bring you some clothes," he reminded her.

Felicity made a sarcastic noise under her breath. " _Right_."

With the whole perfect-physique, battle-scarred look, _plus_ the fun fact that his clothes had emerged relatively whole (unfairly, in her opinion) from their encounter, there was a decent chance it just looked like he'd been sparring in the courtyard.

_Well._

Felicity glanced at the raised welts along his muscled flanks, at the fresh scratches down his ribs and back that could only have been made by fingernails, not metal claws or swords. Combined with her general state of disarray, there was very little left to the imagination with regards to what they'd been doing.

Which was both good and bad, at least to her. She'd always kept things discreet with Oliver, firmly behind closed doors. The weird things they did to each other were absolutely no one else's business but their own. Roaming the hallways and running into League members on the way back to their room didn't exactly fit into the box marked _discreet_ , but they were in the uneasy post-fight territory where an offhand sentence carried the cadence of a challenge, and a _stay-here-I'll-get-you-some-clothes_ had to be met with a firm _no_.

Because it was principle.

The thought made Felicity lift her chin a little higher, just in time for them to pass another stranger in the corridor.

"Aaaand that would make nineteen," she muttered, feeling the curious stare extend to the reddish-pink marks running up the insides of her thighs.

The anatomical part responsible for that damage was currently attached to Oliver's admittedly handsome (beautiful, when Felicity was tipsy) face, a responsibility he didn't seem to regret in the slightest.

Then again, neither did she. Not really. Which was why neither of them said very much — because they were still trying to decide whether they even _liked_ what they'd just done.

Principle or not, it was still a relief to be back in the privacy of their bedroom. Felicity slipped past Oliver and made a beeline straight for the bathroom (or hot water room, if she was being especially detail-oriented) to conduct a damage assessment.

The warm water she splashed onto her face made her lips feel tender. They were swollen from Oliver's kisses, and she gingerly tested her lower lip with her fingertip, wincing in response to the protesting throb. Facing the mirror mounted on the bathroom wall, Felicity gathered her disheveled hair up into a ponytail and undid the top buttons (what was left of them) on Oliver's shirt. The warm steam rising off the pool made the fabric heavy, and the folds of it collected around Felicity's elbows like a shawl when she let it slip experimentally past her shoulders.

Needless to say, Felicity wasn't the type of person with the physique or the ego to be transfixed by her naked body in a bathroom mirror, but she did stare, because _whoa_. It was one thing to feel stiff around the limbs and sore between her legs, but it was _quite_ another to see the evidence in a mirror. There was a deep — almost indecent — flush in her cheeks, while her skin had been chafed to redness around her throat and breasts. She shook the sleeves of Oliver's shirt back to find her wrists marked from his grip, matching the forming bruises on her hips and the inside of her thighs. Felicity pressed on them, exploring and examining like it was new skin, noting absently as she circled one wrist that none of them actually hurt.

But it did bring back the memory of Oliver pinning her arms together with one hand and holding her against the door, the crushing breathlessness of their mouths together, and the unrelenting possessiveness with which he'd taken her.

Felicity gripped the edges of the washbasin and pressed her forehead against the cool glass, her eyes closed to the involuntary shudder of responsiveness that danced up her spine, because _goddammit_ , she was his — as much as he was hers.

Her head thudded lightly against the mirror, a firm reprieve for her thoughts. " _Frack_ ," she muttered to herself.

There was a quiet tap on the bathroom door, and Felicity felt a brief surge of panic, as though she was worried that Oliver could tell what she'd been doing.

Felicity cleared her throat. "It's open," she said, and Oliver walked in.

They stared at each other for a long moment, and Felicity realized that it hadn't occurred to her to cover herself with the open folds of Oliver's shirt.

So he saw. Wordlessly, his eyes traveled down her bared shoulders, torso, and her legs, just as she was taking in the sight of his bare chest, arms and hips, the scratches and bruises and welts they'd inflicted on each other in a shared moment of weakness.

"Jesus," she said, even though the word barely sufficed to cover exactly what she was feeling.

Oliver closed the door behind him. "I'm sorry," he said, very quietly. "I shouldn't have done that."

" _We_ ," Felicity corrected, resisting the urge to trace another of his scratches. "And I think this is where _we_ admit that we may have overreacted — a little."

The faintest of smiles warmed their faces, interrupted only when Felicity saw Oliver glance at her foot with sudden focus. To her surprise, there was a track of bloody footprints across the tiles — which she hadn't felt, at all. "You're bleeding," he said, a non sequitur, but she could tell from the softness of his voice that he agreed. "Let me see."

There was an unexpressed question behind his words, a tentative query to gauge her position, and Felicity paused, almost a second too long.

Then she freed her lower lip and nodded. "Okay," she answered.

* * *

Oliver had always known that Felicity had beautiful skin. It had the purity and satin-smoothness of marble, and the warm rose-petal blush of vitality that made her skin glow like a pearl. He watched her now, perched at the edge of the pool, the folds of his shirt gathered around her shoulders like a blanket while he cupped handfuls of water and let it spill across the small cut in the sole of her foot, balanced in his palm.

His feet were hard and toughened from years of sparring and rough terrain on the island, but hers were as soft and smooth as the rest of her, and she'd cut herself by stepping on a sharp stone while walking barefoot through Nanda Parbat.

Felicity's chin rested on her folded knee, her downturned face hiding her expression from view. She had a habit of swaying lightly from side to side if she was in deep thought, and Oliver had to willfully suppress the instinct to rest his hand in the bend of her waist, if only to keep her from falling into the water by accident.

Stupid. The last thing they needed was another inadvertent touch — another spark to light the flame — with the both of them marked and sore from what they'd done. Washing her foot, cleaning her cuts…it was a penance of sorts, a tentative truce, but not quite a reconciliation.

Oliver didn't need to see Felicity's face to feel a small twinge of remorse when her exploring fingertips absently traced their way up to the marks he'd left on her neck. She gave a faint start when her fingers found a bruise and their gazes locked, because Oliver hadn't taken his eyes off her for an instant.

Felicity cleared her throat and swept her hair across one shoulder to cover her neck. "How's my war wound?" she asked, skirting the subject. "Think I'll walk again?"

Oliver ran his thumb along the soft arch of her foot, and Felicity laughed, splashing them both with water when her knee jerked in response to the sensation. It was an involuntary sound that softened the edges between them, and he felt himself smile. "I think so," he answered.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, made soothing by the sound of rippling water as Oliver washed Felicity's feet, taking care to clean out the last traces of grit in the cut.

Felicity's leg was loose and relaxed in his lap when she leaned forward, until their heads were almost touching. Oliver lifted his head and met her eyes, letting her study him. Gently, she trailed her knuckles down the side of his face, lingering on the fading bruise where Nyssa had punched him. Her slap hadn't left a mark, but he could tell from her expression that she remembered exactly where it'd been.

"Sorry," she murmured. "I didn't mean it."

Oliver shook his head. "I shouldn't have kissed you like that, but I just…"

"…ran out of words," she finished for him, and smiled a little. "Takes two to clap, Oliver Queen. You kissed me first, but I kissed you back."

Oliver returned her smile, and closed his eyes while she stroked his face. He opened them, alert again, when she pressed lightly on his lower lip, making him grimace from the abrupt sting.

They stared at each other, as understanding flickered between them.

"We can't fight like that again," Felicity said, finally. She wasn't smiling anymore.

Oliver's hands went momentarily still around her foot. "No," he agreed.

"But we're going to — unless we have it out. Right now." Felicity shifted away and bent to trail her hands in the hot water, pouring it across her tender wrists as she spoke.

There was a pause, and she lifted her head, two Felicitys — real and a reflection — staring at him over the dark water. "Why are you angry with me?" she asked.

Oliver shut his eyes, not in frustration for Felicity's apparent slowness, but because she was deliberately giving him a chance to redraw the boundaries of their fight. She had to know, to sense that their fight had morphed and reshaped itself to a more monstrous proportion than it had begun with, taking them both so far from where they'd started that Oliver almost didn't remember what exactly it had been about.

Now he did.

"Darhk," he said, because that was what it all came back to. Felicity was facing her own father in a war, and Oliver didn't want to — couldn't bear to — think about what she might have to sacrifice to win.

The muscles in Felicity's leg tensed beneath his hands, and Oliver let her slide her foot away with a splash. "You think that because I'm learning to shoot, it means that I'm going to try and kill him — my dad," she said, dully. She was sitting with her legs submerged up to the knee, resting her weight on the palms of her hands. "You don't want me to jeopardize my soul…for someone like him."

"Aren't you?" Oliver asked, pressing the point. "I know that Darhk's done some unforgivable things — he's hurt Diggle and his family, he's hurt you and Donna, and countless other innocent people —"

"— _but_ …" she murmured, without looking at him.

"No one's saying that Darhk doesn't deserve to die, but I asked you to think about _your_ own terms," Oliver said, softly. "And I know from experience that having a gun in your hands changes how you see the world. I lost my temper because I thought you were rushing into a decision that Darhk was forcing you to make."

Felicity's ring dragged across the stone when her fingers clenched into fists. "We've been over this, Oliver," she said, tiredly.

Oliver shook his head. "No, we haven't, Felicity — because…you were right."

Felicity turned her head and looked at him with raised eyebrows. "It takes angry sex to make you admit that I'm right?" she said, sounding simultaneously amused and uncertain. "I really should be recording this — _not_ , the sex, I mean. We don't do that…I don't think."

Oliver huffed a laugh, he had to. "Felicity, you were right when you said that I didn't know who you were."

"Oliver, I was angry —"

"— because I was assuming that I knew who you were, and it's true. Everyone we've faced, they've underestimated you because they can't see how strong you really are. Slade, Ra's al Ghul…they never saw it. Darhk doesn't either."

Felicity made a noise under her breath. "He got himself captured on purpose and used Sara to expose the Foundry — feels like he knows me pretty well."

"But he didn't anticipate you fighting back," Oliver reminded her. "Or that you'd use the Brother Eye virus against him. He thought that you'd leave me because of Connor, and he thought that telling you and Diggle about Andy would break up the team. Damien Darhk has shown over and over again that he doesn't know who you are, and that's your key to beating him."

Felicity was twisting the ring he'd given her, around and around her finger. "I love you, Oliver," she said softly, as if she was reassuring herself of something known. "But…I'm not sure who I am, right now."

* * *

Felicity slipped her hand away from Oliver's before he could tell that it was shaking. She stared at the uneven stone ahead of her. It was a hard thing she was about to admit — because it was a first, it really, truly was. Not Oliver being right, because he had his moments (every now and then). Holding a gun _had_ made her question who she was, but it had also given her an easy way out, a shortcut and a distraction away from the harder answer. In a way, Oliver being lost had a way of making her sure of herself. But now that their positions were reversed, it wasn't so simple.

"You told me that killing my father is _not who I am_ ," she said, thinking aloud. "You said to me that I should fight him on my own terms."

Felicity lifted her shoulders. "The truth is, maybe the idea of killing him…is simple. _Simpler_ , I mean. Because I don't know what my terms are, not anymore. I tried to beat him as Felicity Smoak, and you almost got shot, I almost lost Diggle as a friend, we lost the Foundry and nearly got ourselves killed for real."

Oliver was very still. "And Oracle?" he asked.

Felicity inhaled. _Oracle_. The idea had lost some of its shine, in the cold light of day. Calling herself that, alongside the Arrow, Flash, Canary…maybe it was just her way of pretending that she had a mask of her own. Maybe it was her way of pretending that she had any power in the situation her father had thrown her into. Maybe it was her way of distancing herself from being _Damien Darhk's daughter_ , making everyone think she was a hero — not the daughter of a murderer.

But she'd forgotten — what ORACLE was made to do. What its Oracle had failed to stop. Deaths, so many deaths. Some of them faceless, some of them known, some of them close — too close.

Felicity shook her head. "I don't _want_ to beat him as Oracle," she said. "Because it's killed thousands — God knows how many — innocent people. I can't be Felicity Smoak and I can't be Oracle and beat him, so I don't know what I can do. I can help Ray fix his suit, come up with _the_ solution against the nano-implants, and I can watch you train with Nyssa, but where does that leave me?"

Oliver didn't say anything, at first, but she felt the water ripple around her legs, as he stirred the heated pool with one hand. Their reflections danced and flickered along the uneven surface, creating dozens more — separate, disjointed versions of themselves in the dark water.

"Maybe…" Oliver began. "Maybe the answer isn't any one of those. Maybe…the answer is to become something else. You just don't know who that is yet."

Felicity smiled faintly at him. "But that person won't sacrifice her soul to kill the psychopathic dad, right?"

Oliver was silent. Felicity turned away and shut her eyes, unsure if she was regretting the half-hearted attempt at lightening a terrible situation, or whether she was just tired. The heat had worked its way up her legs, soothing the tender skin. It was supposed to wipe everything clean, but all Felicity could sense, taste, smell…was Oliver.

He was a part of her. In her hair, behind her closed eyes, on her lips, between her legs…a way to forget herself and take the easy comfort of having him tell her who he thought she was.

She didn't want that. Even when Oliver had been about to lose himself to Ra's al Ghul, she'd reminded him firmly of the light already inside of himself, of the person she believed that he could be…a hero, and a human being. But that was different from having him depending completely on her to define his identity. She was a part of it — maybe bigger than most — but not the whole. They each held vast expanses of the other's heart in their hands, but there was always something else.

Dependency wasn't them. Abiding trust and fierce independence was, and if they were taking turns with nemeses and soul-based conflicts, it was past time for Felicity to have an identity crisis of her own.

Past time.

Felicity sniffed at her hair. "I still smell like you," she said to herself, and reached for the hem of his shirt.

It landed in a heap by his feet and Felicity slid into the pool before Oliver could say another word, the dark folds of the water closing over her upturned face and devouring the distant warm light of the world above.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CAPE COD IS GORGEOUS. I'm also about to see my first 4th of July in the USA, busy cleaning and cooking lobsters - I actually cut myself on one of their shells (and I don't even like lobster). Anyways.  
> IF YOU WATCH POLDARK, WE REALLY NEED TO BE FRIENDS. ROSS AND DEMELZA FOREVER.


	54. Who We Are

The night breeze sent the torch-fires dancing in the wall sconces. Felicity swirled the wine in her glass, watching the flurry of ruby sparks swirl above the many burning braziers heating the open courtyard.

The League's version of dinner was a series of long wooden benches set up in the square, piled high with food and drink while people — adults, children, elderly — sat where they wanted. Like a high school cafeteria, but with less social dysfunction and passive-aggressive mind games.

Games, though. Nobody said anything about _games_ , period.

"My bet's on the Canary," said Thea. "Sonic scream over super-speed, _any_ day of the week."

Barry made a _pfft_ noise and pointed to the next person in the circle, while Sara watched unconcernedly from the side with Nyssa. "Caitlin?" he asked, raising his eyebrows with a grin. "You've seen my best speed. Pick your team."

Felicity nudged Roy with her knee, and his hand shot up like he was umpiring. "That's a bias warning," he cautioned. "Watch it, Allen."

Barry made a face at him before turning back to Caitlin. "Come on, Caitlin," he said, holding his arms out. "Team Flash. Karaoke buddies. The science nerds."

"Really?" Felicity poked him in the ribs, laughing over her glass of wine. "Barry Allen, _that's_ the pitch you're going with?"

" _Hey_ — you're umpiring, Felicity," he reminded her, primly. "Go umpire."

Felicity subsided back into her seat, shaking her head at the finicky nature of male competitiveness. They'd just had dinner alongside the rest of the League, and were in the process of adding their own spin with the superhero-vigilante version of after-dinner activities.

Caitlin scrunched up her nose, already wincing. "We'll always have _Summer Nights_ , Barry, but I'm going to have to stick with Sara. You've both got powers, but she has more training."

" _What_?" Barry said, indignantly.

As if to prove Caitlin's point, Sara released her Bo staff with a crisp _snap_ and twirled the weapon easily behind her back. "You can always back out, Barry," she teased. "Before this starts getting embarrassing."

Barry snorted. "I haven't even broken out my secret weapon yet." He turned to Cisco, who'd been attempting to use his cup as concealment. "C'mon, Cisco. You know it's me."

"Uh…"

Nyssa stood up abruptly, interrupting before he could answer. "Any half-wit would back Ta-er al-Sahfer," she said, loudly. "As if the matter is even under question."

Cisco looked dazed. "Pass," he said, dreamily.

" _What?!_ "

Cisco was still staring, transfixed by Nyssa's smile. "Can't think of an answer that won't get me in trouble. Sorry, Barry — I'm out of this round."

Roy sniggered rudely. "Out of luck, Allen."

Felicity laughed at Barry's expression — a cross between _for real, guys?_ and _I'm calling Iris_ — and leaned her back against the bench, parting her lips to taste the cool air. Maybe she was a little stuffed from dinner, maybe she was verging on the edge of tipsy from the wine, but it didn't take food or alcohol to notice that it was a beautiful night in Nanda Parbat. They were so far from everything that the sky was full of stars, midnight blue scattered with a blaze of faraway diamonds, a sight she rarely — scratch that, _never_ — got to see in Starling.

Felicity was so distracted by the stars that she nearly missed it. The tiny flitting pass of intuition, the inexplicable pull of habit and expectation that made her open her eyes. Slowly, silently, she turned her head and met Oliver's gaze — across the circle of people.

_You were right._

_I'm not sure who I am, right now._

_Where does that leave me?_

"Where does that leave us?" Felicity said, very, very quietly.

The question still stood, a dip in hot water aside. Felicity's terms were still unclear, her identity crisis unresolved. She reminded herself of what she _did_ know. That they were two people who loved each other, who trusted each other. Two people about to fight a war. A little bit of quiet, a little bit of chaos — them in a nutshell.

"Oliver," Barry said, doing his best version of _adorable puppy_. "Who's your pick?"

The tension held, a low hum that only they could hear because even from opposite sides of a crowd, it was like they were in their own world.

"Oliver?"

Felicity smiled tightly and looked away, because she didn't know, she really didn't know.

* * *

"This seat taken?"

Oliver stirred, lost in the endless circles in which his thoughts seemed to spin, and looked up to find Diggle standing in front of him.

He inclined his head. "Free country," he said, lightly.

"Not sure Tibet would agree," Diggle remarked, seating himself on a patch of empty bench beside Oliver. "But I'm sure that has nothing to do with the state of the weapons room I left you and Felicity in."

Oliver nearly froze, in the middle of pouring Diggle a glass of wine. "We just talked," he said, and carefully set the flagon down. "Nothing happened."

Diggle huffed a laugh and picked up his cup. "You know, Oliver, even if you weren't such a terrible liar, there's a bite mark on your neck that doesn't look like it came from _talking_."

Oliver reflexively touched the side of his neck, brushing the edges of the bite not quite hidden by his shirt collar. "It's not what you think," he said, mildly.

"Mm." Diggle's tone was disagreement enough. "You know, before Lyla and I got divorced, we did a lot of talking — and not enough of it. We were young, and we never saw eye to eye on anything. Sometimes it was just easier to go from screaming at each other to tearing each other's clothes off. Take it from me, Oliver, the last thing I want is for you and Felicity to make that mistake."

Oliver took a swallow of wine and set his glass down with more force than he intended. "It won't happen again, Diggle," he promised, forcing his fingers to unclench from around the glass stem. "Which is more than I can say for some things."

Diggle exhaled, drumming his fingertips on the table like he was considering how to respond. "Oliver, if Felicity doesn't ask me to stop teaching her, you know I won't. And she hasn't."

"Because you're encouraging her," Oliver said, with a sharp look.

"We've both known Felicity for a long time — when has she _ever_ needed encouragement after she's put her mind to something?"

"That's just it, Diggle," Oliver said, a little too viciously. "She _hadn't_ decided that she was going to kill her father because she promised me she'd think about it, and the reason — one of the reasons — I lost control is because she was _thinking about it_ with a gun in her hand. And even if you didn't put it there, you certainly helped."

Diggle watched Oliver without speaking, still tapping his fingertips on the table. "I don't want to fight with you, Oliver."

Oliver agreed without hesitation. "Neither do I."

"Good, so if you're expecting an apology, you won't get one," Diggle said, leaning forward in his seat. "Felicity has shown us over and over again that she makes her own choices — good choices. She made the choice to help you when you were first starting out as the Hood, she made the choice to go after you when Ra's had _no_ intention of giving you up, and she's making a choice now — _not_ a choice to kill her father, but being ready to…if it turns out to be the only way forward. There's a difference between planning to kill Damien Darhk, and being _prepared_ to kill him. We both know Felicity is smart enough to know the difference."

In spite of the accusations at the back of his head, Oliver felt himself smile. "That's what she told me," he said, quietly.

It was Diggle's turn to refill their cups. "I'm not surprised," he said, evenly. "You should know by now that Felicity and I generally see eye to eye on these things."

Oliver sighed. "I know you do, and I don't know what I would have done without the both of you helping me. But this isn't the same. When Felicity made those choices, _I_ was the one who didn't know who I was, and now…"

He turned now, searching for her in the crowd. It was nearly instantaneous, like the snapping-together of two opposing magnets — how easily he found her. Felicity had little Sara on her knee, resting her chin on the tumbled little head of dark curls while she talked to Lyla. There was a smile on her lips from whatever they were talking about — the kind of smile that had swelled into a laugh more times than he could count — and he almost believed that everything was all right with her, even if he knew full well that it wasn't.

Because that was a side she only showed to him. He shook his head to clear it — banishing the image of Felicity sinking below the dark water and letting it swallow her from sight.

"She's lost, John," Oliver said. "She's so lost, and I don't know how to help her."

Diggle touched Oliver's shoulder. "She'll be all right, Oliver. She has you, and the last thing you'd do is let her fall, right?"

Oliver lingered on the sight of Felicity holding her goddaughter — _their_ goddaughter — for a little while longer. Promise, hope, and a future. "Right," he murmured, and hoped that he was.

* * *

Felicity didn't quite remember how many glasses she'd had, and how much of what she was feeling was because of the (very nice) red wine, courtesy of the Nanda Parbat cellars. But no amount of alcohol could make her forget the loveliness of holding a child, breathing in the sleepy clean scent of little Sara's hair and having the weight of her chubby fists in her two hands.

" _Mama_ ," she insisted, turning wide-eyed towards Felicity in search of her mother.

"Good girl," Felicity cooed, waving Sara's arms. "Mama's just over there — see? Talking to Uncle Oliver. Can you say Uncle Oliver?"

" _Oli-fuh_ ," little Sara said, stubbornly.

Felicity kissed her hot little cheek, trying not to laugh at the mental image of Oliver's expression — he was at his peak of unintentional funniness when faced with adorable little children trying to say his name without a lisp. "Close enough, sweetie."

"A lovely child," Nyssa said, standing behind Felicity's shoulder like she'd been there the whole time.

"She is," Felicity agreed, and waved one of Sara's fists at Nyssa. "Hi there," she said, and turned to little Sara. "Say hello to Nyssa. _Ny-ssa_."

" _No_ ," Sara answered, and grinned up at Nyssa with a precocious awareness of the _you-can't-hate-me-I'm-adorable_ variety.

"Sorry," Felicity said hastily, just in case Nyssa was immune to adorable-kid vibes.

But Nyssa laughed, and Sara gurgled at the sound. Felicity watched, pleasantly surprised, as she claimed a seat on the bench opposite Felicity and bent close to scrutinize Sara's little face with mock-seriousness.

"Hello, little one," she said, in a businesslike voice. "My name is Nyssa al Ghul. How do you do?"

Sara looked a little uncertain. Even softened with laughter, Nyssa's eyes were the swan-black darkness of a midnight sky, and her features had the natural edge of a weapon, honed to exquisiteness.

Nyssa touched Sara's forehead with one tapered fingertip. "You were named for someone very dear to me," she confided. "For that, I would offer my protection, and my loyalty — if you will have me, little princess."

Sara was a grabber by nature, so Felicity really shouldn't have been shocked when her hands clapped onto Nyssa's cheeks and she planted a fat baby kiss onto her nose.

Felicity stared. "Whoa," she said, unsure if she was talking to little Sara or Nyssa.

"You must think me cold, Sa'ida." Nyssa's expression could only have been described as smug. "There are many children in Nanda Parbat, and I confess that I do not habitually acquaint myself with them, but I could hardly neglect a child that bears Ta-er al-Sahfer's name."

"Romantic," Felicity commented. "Sara's lucky she's with a total sap like you. _Acquainting_ yourself with a child — swoon."

For the smallest moment, Nyssa looked uncertain if Felicity was joking. Until Felicity grinned and nudged Nyssa's ankle. "Kidding," she said. "Good practice for when said children grow up and start sassing you."

Nyssa reached for a glass of wine. "I suppose so," she agreed, and her dark eyes flicked over Felicity, head to toe. "No children for yourself? I'd thought Oliver Queen was in rather a haste."

Felicity felt her cheeks flame and shoved all thoughts of the weapons room out of her head. "You really don't have a very high opinion of Oliver, do you?" she said.

Nyssa smiled. "On the contrary, I tease all of my friends _mercilessly_. Oliver Queen has a certain…naiveté that lends itself very well to my needling." She took a sip of wine and added, almost as an afterthought, "So do you, Sa'ida. You blush at any mention of him, and all your thoughts show on your face — clear as day. I don't even know why you bother, really."

Felicity buried said face in Sara's curls, like it could immunize her against Nyssa's uncompromising sass. "He's naive, I'm transparent — we're _the_ dream when it comes to vigilante team-ups," she muttered.

Nyssa made a non-committal noise in her throat and smiled warmly at little Sara, who was playing with the League ring on her hand. It was heavy gold and shiny — basically a beacon of distraction for any toddler.

"What's that?" Felicity asked, suddenly. For a moment, she wondered if she'd had too much red wine (oops) and imagined it, but Nyssa gave her a quizzical look and opened her left hand, laying it palm-up on her knee.

It was a pale line across her palm, running parallel to the natural creases in her skin and nearly identical to the one Sara had on her own hand — the scar that Nyssa had recognized her by. Except Nyssa's was on her left hand, but Sara's was on her right.

"Left-handed," Felicity murmured. "You're left-handed — so someone did this for you."

Nyssa looked at her oddly. "Of course. The blood is always drawn from one's dominant hand."

Felicity blinked (had she gone into a mini-coma from implied use of pointy objects?) and shook herself. "Blood?" she repeated.

* * *

"You're _married_?" Felicity said, not bothering to hide her shock.

"I suppose you could call it that," Nyssa answered, as if she couldn't understand why Felicity was so surprised. "Do you not approve of my union with Ta-er al-Sahfer?"

Felicity batted a hand, an action little Sara watched with great interest and began to mimic enthusiastically. Great. "Not that, I'm all _for_ that. It's just…I mean…the _League_. Offence kinda intended here, but your father had Sara killed because she was with you. A place like that isn't going to be big on the whole equal marriage thing."

Nyssa just looked very amused. "Unlike your ridiculous tradition of having a stranger pronounce you joined for life, the League has always adopted a simple vow in its stead. Only the two souls involved need be present, and all that is required is the simple recitation and the letting of blood."

"Is that all?" Felicity said, sarcastically. "So you've been married to Sara for…"

"The ceremony was done a month before my father sent Ta-er al-Sahfer on her false assignment to Starling City. I could never be sure if he'd known that we'd defied his wishes, but I suppose it didn't matter — to him." Nyssa's features became almost mask-like at the mention of her father. "Sara bears her scar, as I do mine. By your standards, I suppose that does make us _married_ , which is why I'll never understand why Oliver Queen has been so abominably slow going about fulfilling his intentions to marry you."

"First of all, _mazel tov_ ," Felicity said, still feeling vaguely stunned that Nyssa — _Nyssa_ — had beat them in the marriage race. "And second, we do kinda want the marriage to be binding _outside_ of Nanda Parbat. It's just really tough to explain on tax forms that you got legally married in a place which technically doesn't exist."

_Plus we just had a huge, explosive, ended-in-sex argument about killing my father. Oh, and I'm having a minor identity crisis. Can we start the honeymoon already?_

Felicity pinched the bridge of her nose at the thought, experiencing the first ominous stirrings of a throbbing headache. The firelight left bright patches at the back of her eyes, and all she wanted to do was close them. Maybe punch her dad in the face, then take a nap.

Her dad.

"What is it with super-villain dads?" Felicity mumbled, because she was tired, so tired of it. The exhausting stupidity and the blinding unfairness of a near-stranger like her father thinking he had any bearing whatsoever on her life — what she did, what she wanted, and who she loved.

Nyssa watched her with those fathomless black eyes, seeing and understanding too much, almost more than Felicity could bear.

"Your father despises him, doesn't he?" she said, almost immediately. "He can't _bear_ the waste — because he doesn't deserve you, this inferior creature, whose deception has claimed your heart. He makes you weak, he makes you less than what he _envisions_ for you…this weakling, this corruption. You have been led astray, but take his hand — your father's hand — and he will lead you back to your true path. He will show you all that you can be… _without_ the wretch who dared to hold his daughter's heart."

The inexorable chill crept up Felicity's arms, even wrapped around little Sara's warmth, at the words she could just _hear_ coming out of Damien's mouth.

Words Nyssa must have heard from Ra's al Ghul, about Sara.

The assassin and the hacker — both fallen in love with the wrong people, according to their less-than-ideal fathers. Felicity had always assumed that Nyssa resembled Oliver, loving fiercely and sacrificing — anything — for their love, a love they weren't entirely sure they deserved, with tainted souls that one person, in spite of everything, saw as full of light.

For once, Felicity had beaten Oliver on the similarity index.

"I don't know what to do," she admitted, to someone she never thought she'd have to say it to. "I'm not who he says I am, but I'm not who I thought I was, either."

Nyssa stroked little Sara's hair thoughtfully. "It pulls you apart, doesn't it? Knowing that your blood is a cause for their suffering…it makes you question yourself, what you are made of…what you _can_ be."

"I'm guessing you have a pretty definite point of view on that," Felicity said.

Nyssa eyed her speculatively. "Perhaps," she said. "But it certainly is not for the faint of heart. Does it interest you, Sa'ida? A way to examine your heart and mind and glean an answer from the fragments?"

After a beat, Felicity nodded. "Show me."

* * *

"This," said Felicity, "is _not_ a good idea."

She was out of breath from the climb, and her voice echoed in the cavernous space ahead of her. Which was particularly pathetic, since Nyssa seemed absolutely fine, despite the fact that they'd gone for an impromptu hike through a mountain.

"Do you recall me telling you that this way was _not_ for the faint of heart?" was Nyssa's crisp answer.

The single lantern Nyssa held aloft swung hypnotically with the phantom winds that still rose and swirled around the darkness — this pit. Nearly engulfed by rubble and distinctly unused since it was buried with the rest of the underground labyrinth, Felicity hadn't expected Nyssa to take her back to the fear pit.

But she had, and Felicity now stood at the edge of the yawning blackness, nearly the exact place she'd stood a year ago with Oliver, feeling the invisible grasping hands tug at her limbs and clothes. She remembered the shrill cry of the wind, tearing at her with a vengeance, and the warmth of Oliver's arms as they closed around her, protecting her.

Felicity was alone now, except for Nyssa.

"Will it work?" Felicity asked, with a dry throat and an even drier mouth.

The red lantern flame guttered when Nyssa extended it over the pit, illuminating a few inches of rough stone wall sinking into opaque black. The height — the suggestion of it, at least — was enough to make her stomach squirm uncomfortably. "It should," said Nyssa. "When we are afraid, we lose the masks we wear to hide who we are — even from ourselves. You said that you do not know who you are. Will you be brave, Sa'ida, and face your fears — in the hopes of seeing yourself, without your mask?"

Felicity turned to look at Nyssa, half-shadowed in the candlelight. "I didn't know I had a mask," she said, trying not to remember what she'd had for dinner.

"Oh, we all have masks," Nyssa said. "Some wear theirs to be a hero, others wear theirs to keep the demons in their cage. Do you have courage enough to discover which of those you are?"

"I won't tell if you don't," Felicity said, with a trace of her usual humor. "But how do I get down?"

Nyssa drew herself up to her full height. "Do you trust me?" she asked.

The wind was rising now, and Felicity had to lean close to answer. "Yes!" she shouted, over the howl of the unseen ghosts.

" _Good_ ," Nyssa breathed, and placed her hand squarely between Felicity's collarbones.

"What are you —?"

She shoved without warning, and Felicity felt her feet leave solid ground. Her body sank through the moving air like a blade slicing through water, and she fell into the pit before she could scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha. Nyssa and tough love. Anyways, have fun this weekend, guys. Try to update ASAP.


	55. Through the Cage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloooo literally updating ten minutes to boarding my flight. 14 hours to Beijing. Kill me now. Enjoy the chapters, they're a little rushed.

In hindsight, maybe Felicity had been a little naive, expecting Nyssa _not_ to push her into the unlit hole in the ground. Silly her, for expecting some cross-legged mediation, or maybe a cup of funky tea.

Felicity groaned, feeling thoroughly and completely winded. There were stones under her back, which dug sharply in protest when she forced herself to sit up.

"Not…possible," she said, between her teeth.

Every inch of the ground was unsteady; the stones seemed to skitter and roll away to a different corner of the pit every time she moved. Felicity clutched the uneven wall for support and pulled herself upright, ignoring the aches and pains from…

… _the fall_.

Felicity's head jerked up. She could have sworn — _sworn_ — that there had been light inside the pit. Faint and distant and coming from the mouth of the hole, but still bright enough for her to see her own hands.

Her hands — along with the rest of her — had been swallowed by darkness, because the opening of the pit was gone, effectively sealing her inside the ground.

"Nyssa?" she croaked, experiencing a sudden surge of panic.

No answer.

Felicity tried again, feeling about twelve years old. " _Nyssa!_ This isn't funny! I don't know what I'm supposed to do!"

Not even an echo, which was scientifically impossible (even in a possibly life-threatening situation, Felicity still thought about the science). Sound waves bounced off surfaces, reflecting noises like they reflected light. A space like the pit with enclosed walls _had_ to have an echo. It wasn't possible.

The stones danced away beneath Felicity's feet, reminding her that it wasn't — it wasn't possible. She'd fallen a long way, she knew _that_ for sure, and all she had was a sore elbow and a few aches. Someone like Oliver or Nyssa would know how to avoid injuries from a fall like that, but not her.

Felicity stood very still, listening to the furious beat of her heart. It was an overpowering, demanding sound — her blood racing, warning her to tread very lightly. But the more she listened, the more muffled it became, as if she was hearing her own body through a veil.

Still the silence grew. Like the darkness — the pit — had swallowed the sound. Swallowed it whole, with a greedy, grasping mouth.

Felicity's breaths came sharp and rapid, and she shut her eyes to the intrusive, inquisitive dark, but she could feel it prying at her parted lips, trying to wind its way into her head.

_In._

_Out._

_In._

Nothing.

All was silent, all was still, because Felicity couldn't hear herself breathe. As if in a dream (and she was starting to realize that it was), Felicity stooped to pick up a stone. Easy. There were hundreds and hundreds of them, jagged little things, littering the ground like the broken teeth of a monstrous beast. She closed the soft skin of her palm around it and pressed the back of her hand to her lips.

Oliver had stumbled his way through the pit, around and around the sloping walls. He'd gripped the jutting edges of the stone, listened to the frantic race of his heart because it was the only sound he knew to be true.

He'd told her once, that his worst fear inside the pit had been her dying.

Felicity already knew what hers was. She'd seen it come together, right before her eyes, so close — too close — to being real. Nothing the pit showed her could be worse than that.

Emboldened by the realization, Felicity drew her arm back and hurled the stone high, high into the air. It left her hand unseen, but she waited — suspended in the unearthly silence — knowing it was never coming down.

Because she was already caught in a hallucination, and inside the pit, there were no rules. Not even gravity.

Felicity lowered her head and stared down the darkness.

"Come and get me," she said.

* * *

Oliver was jolted out of his shallow sleep by the sound of a slamming door.

"Felicity?" he said hoarsely, groping for one of the bedposts to haul himself upright.

A narrow shaft of moonlight fell across the empty doorway. She wasn't there. Oliver swore quietly, and brought his hands up to cover his face. There was a dull pounding in his head and a dryness in his mouth from the wine. He'd had too much at dinner, and too much after that, some of it while talking with Diggle, some of it by himself — waiting for Felicity to return after their fight.

_Fight._

It hurt Oliver's head to think of it as a fight, when it had been so much more than that. Fights between them had resolutions, however bitter the conflicts had been — they'd always come to some sort of conclusion. Whether it was anger, or sadness, it always left them somewhere. The worst part about it — their talk — was the fact that neither of them had come out sure of what they were doing. What they had to do, besides the perfunctory.

Felicity had been right. All the training with Nyssa, all the work with Cisco and Caitlin and Ray…it was meaningless unless they had a direction, unless they knew where they were going. Where their choices were taking them, and the people they were becoming in their wake.

The lanterns were burning low, some extinguished completely by the gusting wind that had blown the window shutters wide. Oliver was still for a moment, shielding his eyes from the unsteady light. The questions made the veins in his head throb, and he slid from the bed with sudden decision.

He caught the shutters before they could rattle again and held them apart, leaning over the ledge and into the crisp night air. The wind still howled in the valley below, accompanied by the rush of unseen wings and four-legged creatures of the night.

Oliver stayed at the window, feeling the feverishness ebb away under the cool touch of the moonlight. It was a cold night, distant and remote. Not for the first time that night, he wondered where Felicity was — if she was angry, if she was tired, if she just wanted to be alone, away from him.

He lost track of how long he stood at the window, waiting for time to pass. Eventually, he pushed the shutters closed and latched them back into place, allowing only the faintest slits of white into the darkened room. Slow and careful, he passed a slender reed across the candle flame until it caught, and moved to light the extinguished lanterns, one by one, until the walls flickered with their warm golden glow.

Oliver didn't normally feel the cold, but he did tonight, when he settled at the foot of the bed, his head resting gently against a post as he waited for Felicity to come home.

* * *

Felicity's supervisor was a flaming idiot. Who in the name of frack used a TCP protocol analysis in conjunction with CGI scripting?

"A guy who failed freshman-level computing, that's who," Felicity muttered to herself, her hands flying at top speed across the keyboard as she worked to fix her so-called supervisor's moronic mistake, before it crashed company-wide servers in Queen Consolidated and brought its scary-eyed CEO down eighteen floors in search of a scapegoat.

Moira Queen was _not_ someone Felicity had met before, ever. She was just an IT girl, an unnoticed employee with student loans and a ridiculous monthly rent to pay off.

She could _so_ not afford to get fired.

 _Aha_. Felicity triumphantly refreshed the system and gave it a rapid once-over to check that she'd averted the equivalent of a technological Pompeii.

An encouraging beep from diagnostics told her that she had. Felicity sent the daily systems report to the printer and leaned back in her chair while the thirty-page document chugged its way out of the machine. She sighed, pushing her glasses into her hair while she massaged her tired eyes. Judging by the way her stomach was squirming, and the fact that the corridor outside her box room (it barely qualified as an office) had seen nobody for the better part of three hours, Felicity guessed it was around nine-thirty on a Friday night.

Other twenty-three-year-olds spent Friday nights at glossy bars and hip little restaurants in Starling City, blowing off steam from a day at work. They met people, dated people, were _with_ people, period.

They didn't spend it sitting in half-darkness, alone in a room with whirring monitors and a day-old container of chow mein from Jade Dragon — which she'd had to buy herself, because she was too unimportant to get her lunch delivered.

Thankfully, before Felicity could get into the trulymorbid considerations of her life, the report finished printing and reminded her that she was meant to leave it on said scary CEO's table for a perfunctory morning glance, in the brief twenty-second window before Cecilia the leggy secretary delivered her morning green tea.

 _Tea_. Because a woman like Moira Queen was so out-of-this-world-perfect that she didn't even need caffeine to function like a regular human being.

Felicity snatched the report off the printer on her way out of her boxy office, humming tunelessly under her breath to distract her from the fierce mental competition meant to decide which was worse — the fact that she was still at work on a Friday night fixing a superior's mistake, or the fact that it wasn't even a problem because she'd had no plans to cancel, none whatsoever.

The elevator let her out on the twenty-seventh floor. Felicity was already standing in the vestibule when she realized that Ms. Queen's office was far from being dark and deserted as it usually was.

The glass doors separating the elevators from the main office were a blaze of crystal-lights and rich color, because she was having a party. Of the tux-and-champagne variety.

"Frack," Felicity cursed, and turned back immediately towards the elevator — but the doors closed in her face and no amount of frantic pressing could bring it back.

As she kept her finger jammed on the button, Felicity was acutely aware that she was wearing a striped blouse with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, wrinkled from a day's wear, and a plain black skirt she may or may not have recycled from the day before.

If Ms. Queen saw her, she was so, incredibly —

The elevator behind her dinged, and Felicity raced towards it as the doors were starting to open. _Comeoncomeoncomeon_ —

The doors slid apart, and Felicity collided with something hard.

"Oh, _holy_ —" she swore, holding her stinging nose.

"Excuse me?"

 _Fired_ , Felicity thought, when she opened her eyes and saw who she'd bumped into.

The CEO's son, recently back from the dead and inhabitant of all the gossip magazines in her dentist's office. He was also very cute, especially in a tux, but she didn't need to read the magazines to know that.

"I'm so, _so_ , sorry, Oli— sir — I meant _sir_!" she said, waving the report around like she was trying to direct a plane. "I didn't mean to say… _that_. Or bump into you. Or come up to your mom's — I mean, Ms. Queen's office. I didn't know she was having a party, and I just —"

Felicity took a breath, forcing herself to meet his blue (or gray, she hadn't decided) gaze. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Queen," she said, feeling very, very small.

He adjusted his bow tie. "That's all right," he answered, his tone light and impersonal. Already, he was turning back to look at the tall young woman behind him.

"Are you ready?" he asked, and she smiled back.

Felicity had seen her around the office enough to know who she was. Laurel Lance — the whip-smart attorney and Oliver Queen's longtime girlfriend, impossibly reunited after five years of thinking he was dead. She was tall, with a head of cascading brown curls, wearing an elegant black dress that made her look leggy enough to give even Cecilia a run for her money.

She was also gorgeous, accomplished, and the total focus of Mr. Queen's attention. Felicity took an instinctive step back, out of their way — this young and beautiful couple on their way to a party, the complete picture of everything she didn't, and would probably never have.

Laurel Lance smiled at her as she walked past, but Mr. Queen didn't even look back. He was leading her by the hand, towards the brilliant party Felicity had no business being near. The elevator waited for her, but still Felicity hovered, watching them go.

Music and laughter drifted through the open doorway, a tantalizing whisper of what she was unequivocally not invited to.

Felicity was about to leave, she really was. But something kept her still. Deep in the pit of her stomach, at the back of her mind, it was…instinct.

A feeling of intense _wrongness_ , like she'd seen a green sky, a black sun, or a square-shaped globe. Something so deeply and impossibly out of place that she couldn't imagine moving until it had been corrected. That was the feeling that kept her unmoving, looking over her shoulder at the two near-strangers walking away.

A shadow, a flicker of something impossible, flitting across her vision when she blinked.

Wishful thinking, or maybe something more hallucination-like, but she _thought_ she was seeing a blonde, instead of the brown-haired Laurel.

There — again. A blonde in a gold dress, tilting her head up to smile at Mr. Queen, as surely as he smiled back. It was even a different smile. Warm, easy, the smile of someone completely in love. A different party, a different life — even though Felicity was sure that this was the only one she'd ever known.

Or she was meant to be sure, anyway.

_Time for a dance?_

_You don't dance._

Felicity half-turned, because she could almost feel the steady pressure of an arm around her waist, a hand clasped in hers, a lover's murmur in her ear.

_You're the only person I ever want to dance with. Always._

Felicity let the report slip from her hands, papers spilling across the marble floor and catching in the closing elevator doors — because she was letting them close on that alternate world, that non-life.

Oliver. Not Mr. Queen — _Oliver_.

Her heels clacked a rapid staccato as she walked determinedly towards the party, not caring that she was dressed like a lowly IT girl, that she wasn't meant to be rubbing shoulders with the guests, that she wasn't meant to _be there_ , period.

Oliver was still standing with Laurel when she found him.

"You'll have to do better than that," she declared, and she might have been talking to anyone or anything, when she put one hand at the back of Oliver's neck and grasped his lapel with the other, pulling him down towards her.

Their lips met, and Felicity felt the illusion reverberate with the aftershock, this rebellion. The dream was a mirage from the pit, meant to be her fear — that she had always been an IT girl, unnoticed and unimportant, not even to the person who mattered most to her.

And they'd almost gotten her, they really had. It was the kind of dream that vibrated with realness, a siren song that had almost — _almost_ — lulled her into believing what she saw. She wasn't completely sure how she'd seen through it, except for the instinctive feeling of wrongness that came from Oliver not recognizing her, and her utter stubbornness in refusing to believe it.

Felicity had changed the dream — she could tell from the steady pressure of Oliver kissing her back, and the gentle strength of his arms winding around her waist, lifting her against him. Just like she knew.

His forehead burned against hers, his breath hot against her cheek. "Where were you?" he asked, with a breathless laugh.

Felicity kissed him again, once, and gently. "Here with you," she said.

The pit would have to do better than that, because Felicity would always find Oliver, and he would always find her. The knowledge burned bright and white-hot inside her chest, powerful enough to shudder the foundations of the dream as it began to shift.

"I love you, Oliver," Felicity whispered, feeling him slip away.

Oliver kissed her forehead. "Felicity," he said, "remember who you are."

Suddenly, it was darkness again. Felicity was on her hands and knees in the echoless darkness, waiting for a fresh illusion to take root.

"You'll have to do better than that," she repeated, and the darkness hummed with the angry sound of bees before it descended to meet her challenge.

* * *

Felicity's back was on fire. The pristine white snowdrifts around her were a ruin of slashes and flecks of steaming red — a fight long-since lost, savagery gone unchecked. Air forced itself between her teeth as she crawled, elbows sinking into the snow, an arm curled around her broken ribs. She knew she was moving too slow — helplessly slow — the inch-by-inch struggle of a cornered animal on its last limb, the prey about to suffer the hunter's final blow.

Felicity wanted to scream, but the sound clawed at her throat and the name was lost to a hacking cough that spotted the snow beneath her chin with blood. The droplets gleamed red as hawthorne berries, squashed and broken to a pulp.

A shadow lengthened across the snow.

"Little rat," Cheshire said, in a cat's hiss. A foot slammed into her side and tossed her across the ground like a bloodied ragdoll.

Felicity landed with a spray of snow, the breath jarred out of her throbbing lungs. Cheshire's leering face appeared above her, cocked with the inquisitive slowness of an animal looking down at its impending meal.

"Weak," she said, dispassionately. "Stupid. Did you really think you could defeat the League?"

Her fingertips were numb with cold, sliding in the shocking slickness of her own blood. A snowflake alighted on her moist lips; a tiny shock of cold because the rest of her was burning.

The snow was still falling, falling…

It dusted her eyelashes and frosted her cheeks, burying her while she took her last breaths. Felicity stared up into Cheshire's face — deathly pale, somehow paler than the snow that surrounded them — remembering…

Pale as a ghost, a ghost long dead.

She was trapped, and no one was coming for her. But someone had — the last time.

_Oliver._

" _You're…not…real_ ," Felicity said, each a gasp of air that clawed at her raw throat.

Cheshire's eyes had changed. They were a complete, glittering black, sharp as obsidian, as unearthly as the ghost Felicity realized she was.

"Aren't I?" she taunted, and drew her arm back — with its five long claws bared to kill.

They flashed downward, and the dream melted into darkness again.

* * *

"I thought Oliver Queen had a taste for stronger women," said a voice, accompanied by the slow rasp of a sword being drawn across slick concrete. "How long will it take him to realize his mistake?"

A drop of blood slid down the side of Felicity's face and landed beside her knee. Slade's blunt fingertips retraced its path, up her cheek and into her hair, crossing the back of her neck with a wordless promise.

He was strong enough to snap her spine if he wanted to, and she knew it.

But she also knew that she was still dreaming.

The illusions — the deceptions— that the pit showed her had lost their seductive quality, the effortless lull of a world too good to be true. They were increasingly misshapen, broken glass and twisted reflections of the fears inside her head, horrifying, but less real because of it. They were the nightmares crawling out from under her bed — only she was a big girl now.

"You're on Lian Yu," she said, stubbornly. "You're not really here."

She gasped in pain when the edge of his sword dug into the skin under her ear, and Slade leaned close in a sudden snarl. "Oliver won't come for you because he's chosen. He's chosen _her_."

Half on impulse, half on memory, Felicity slid her hand into her pocket. She remembered this — just like she remembered Cheshire, and Vertigo, and all the monsters the pit had unearthed from the depths of her mind.

Felicity was afraid of them — of course she had been — but they weren't her demons. She'd beaten them as Felicity Smoak. She needed something else now.

 _Ah_.

Felicity's fingertips brushed the plastic barrel of a syringe. She whipped it from her pocket and the needle sparked across the surface of Slade's armor with a screech.

"Not — _real_ ," she said, and drove the syringe down towards his neck.

Something shuddered the air. A silent shift, a reorienting of the pieces. A vise-like grip caught Felicity's forearm before the needle could break the skin.

"No, little one," said Ra's al Ghul, appearing from the shadows like a specter. He twisted her arm painfully behind her back. "Mr. Wilson is not real — but _I_ am."

In spite of everything she knew, Felicity felt her skin prickle with fear. "No," she grunted, struggling to get away. "You're gone — you're not —"

She gasped when he slammed her into the wall, his clawed fingers digging into her throat. "You cannot best the demon, little one," he reminded her, in that eerily calm voice. "Oliver Queen will lose his soul in the attempt to defeat me. You cannot save him, so do not try."

The thought went off inside Felicity's head like a burst of light. Ra's had almost cost Oliver his soul, and now Oliver was afraid that Damien was going to cost Felicity hers.

"That's…not true," she croaked. "I saved him — I saved Oliver."

The shadows churned angrily at her words, and Felicity felt the air grow colder, the whispers louder, as if they were broaching a new kind of darkness. As if everything until then had just been a test.

A new shape materialized out of the dark, and Felicity looked away from Ra's al Ghul's black eyes to meet her father's inscrutable blue gaze, gleaming strangely in the half-light.

"But the question is," said Damien, "do you trust him to save you?"

Before Felicity could answer, her father's knife tore into her chest and stopped her heart with the shard of icy steel.

In the eerie silence left by her frozen heart, Felicity stared at the blood welling across the blade, her reflection colored red in its wake. "I don't need saving," she said, and the knife shattered into a dozen pieces that pierced the dream and jolted her awake.

Felicity came to, lying on the rustling black sand at the bottom of the pit. The sand crumbled and slipped between her clenched fingers as she sat up, staring at the sloped walls with silent apprehension, knowing that she'd had a glimpse past the bars, into the cage that kept her greatest demon at bay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Not the end of the pit stuff. Probably going to come up in the next update. Rome wasn't built in a day :D


	56. No More Games

"Drink," Nyssa ordered, pressing a steaming cup into Felicity's hands. "It will fight the cold."

Felicity's teeth were chattering too hard to protest, so she tipped the cup back — expecting tea — and swallowed a scalding mouthful of wine.

"Frack," she sputtered, the back of her throat burning from the spices. The wine blazed its way down her throat and into her stomach, slowly thawing the block of ice that had been hibernating inside her body since the pit.

Clutching the cup with both hands, Felicity huddled deeper into the thick blanket she'd wrapped around her shoulders, because even with the fire pit just a few feet away, she couldn't seem to stop her whole body from shaking.

Nyssa thrust a poker into the iron brazier and stoked the fire until ruby sparks danced above the lit coals, swirling like fireflies with the invisible air currents. "You slept deeply, Sa'ida," she remarked. "I was beginning to worry you found the dreams too much to your liking."

Felicity's stomach churned at the thought of the pit, a queasy reminder than heights and too much wine at dinner did _not_ mix.

"If I held grudges, and _if_ I wasn't feeling so nauseous right now," she said, her eyes on the dancing flames, "I'd say you deserved to worry — after pushing me into the pit like that."

A low laugh rose in Nyssa's throat as she dusted off her hands and seated herself across from Felicity. "I asked if you trusted me," she said, gracefully crossing her legs beneath her like she was about to meditate.

"Still do." Felicity glanced at her. "Because you didn't leave me in there."

"How else would you have climbed out?" Nyssa said, with a hint of amusement.

They smiled at each other then, even though Felicity should have been smoke-out-of-her-ears-furious that Nyssa's response to an _I trust you_ was to shove her unceremoniously into a hole in the ground.

Nyssa straightened her shoulders with a low sigh, like a cat returning to its resting place. "What did you see?" she asked.

Felicity picked at a scratch in the clay mug. "I saw some stuff," she said, to her murky reflection in the steaming wine. "People — mostly. Along the lines of _wait-you're-supposed-to-be-dead_."

"You were dissatisfied with what you saw?" Nyssa's tone suggested she already knew the answer.

Felicity shook her head and swallowed another mouthful of wine. Part of her knew she'd seen _a lot_ , plenty for one lifetime, but the other part of her knew that she'd just scratched the surface. It was like the classic in sleep-time frustration, the one where she kept trying to reach a closed door, and the second she got her hand on the knob — boom, she was up.

"I'm almost there," she said, trying (and failing) to keep the frustration out of her voice. "I _know_ I am."

Nyssa's lips curled with amusement. "Keen to face your fears again?" she said, sardonically. "Not even Oliver was this eager to prove himself."

Felicity shifted, pulling the blanket still tighter around her shoulders like she was suddenly cold again. "Oliver's dad isn't trying to kill all of his friends," she said, quietly. "And you of all people know that it comes down to them."

"Them?"

A piece of coal broke apart with a clean, crisp _snap_ , sending up a breath of gold sparks. Felicity watched them settle on the smoldering metal before she spoke again. "Our fathers," she finished.

Nyssa was very still, but her eyes flickered across the flames to meet Felicity's. "Is this your way of asking for my advice?"

Felicity drummed her fingers against the cup. "You know about my dad," she said.

"I do."

"You know what he did to —"

"— to Ta-er al-Sahfer, yes." Nyssa's gaze drifted across the healing cut on Felicity's forehead. "He wounded you too, I see."

If Felicity hadn't known Nyssa the way she did, she would have taken the detachment in her tone at face value. But she knew better. Felicity took a careful sip of her drink, feeling the warmth rise to her cheeks from the alcohol. "Well, he didn't exactly stab me in the chest and kick me off a pier." _Not in real life, anyway._

"No, I suppose he did not," Nyssa agreed. She made no move to touch the white scar on her chest, from when Ra's had run her through with his sword. "But fathers like yours and mine have an uncanny instinct to wound — by hurting the people closest to our hearts."

Felicity watched the courtyard where they sat, thrown into contrasts of shadow and uneven firelight. Thanks to the pit, a part of her saw lurking figures between the columns and listening ears behind the open arched windows.

She shook herself — just being stupid. "And Thea," she said, dully. "God, I almost forgot about Thea. Yay for super-villain dads."

Nyssa nodded, as if she hadn't forgotten, not at all. "Oliver was wise to bring his sister into the fold before Al Sa-Her could use the rift between them to his advantage. Your sister would do well to be wary — my father and Al Sa-Her agreed on very little, but on one point of similarity, they were united. They will use their children as pieces in their game, whatever the cost, whatever the end."

Felicity wasn't inclined to disagree. "So what would you do?" she asked, setting her cup down. "About said fathers, I mean."

"You ask me for guidance?" Nyssa said, with a raised eyebrow.

Felicity knew she was testing her. "I know — we both know — what Oliver thinks," she said, slowly.

Nyssa gave a derisive snort. "That man can be singularly inconsistent when it comes to judgments concerning his loved ones. Very much like Ta-er Al-Sahfer — overprotective, and utterly overeager to avoid any _suggestion_ of darkness tainting them."

"You say that like darkness isn't a bad thing," Felicity observed.

Nyssa turned towards Felicity, her face curiously blank against the flickering light from the burning brazier. "I once told Oliver's sister that while my father was the demon, hers was the devil," she said. "When you must face these creatures of the dark, sometimes it becomes necessary to descend into the depths in order to duel them."

"That," said Felicity, "is _exactly_ what Oliver doesn't want me doing."

"Then Oliver is a fool," Nyssa said, shortly. "Did he not fight my father from within the League of Assassins? With our warriors at his side?"

"Yes, but —"

"Did the darkness not touch his soul? Did he not face the shadows with a sword in his hand?"

"Yeah, except —"

"He did all these things," Nyssa continued, "and still emerged as the man you know and love — against all reason, might I add. Now, what should stop you from doing the same?"

"Because I'm afraid," Felicity said, finally. "I'm afraid of my father and what he makes me — _who_ — he makes me. You told me the pit would make me lose my mask, but I went in and I felt so… _weak_. He made me feel weak, and it was only inside my head."

"Felicity Smoak." Nyssa rose and stood in front of her, proud and tall. "From what you have told me, the thing your father most prizes is control. He despises free will and resistance and your friends' pigheaded stubbornness for that very reason. He — cannot — control you."

Felicity was startled by the sudden flare of emotion in Nyssa's voice, at the fact that she had chosen to speak from experience.

"The pit shows you what you fear, and you fear your father because you do not yet understand who he makes you. But he _cannot_ control you. He will try, and he will fail."

Nyssa lifted her chin, and Felicity mirrored her without thinking. "So what you're saying is…I should try again," she said, and Nyssa smiled.

The sun's first rays were beginning to creep across the sky, rich gold tinged with red, all across an expanse of deep blue. With a faint start, Felicity realized that it was almost dawn. She'd been gone for a whole night in the pit.

"Rest," Nyssa said, her eyes on the impending sunrise. "The day is long, but tonight, we make another attempt."

* * *

Felicity really hoped Oliver hadn't noticed that she'd been gone for a whole night. Even for someone like him, what they'd done in the weapons room _had_ to have tired a guy out. Felicity's feet were zombie-dragging by the time she tracked down their room and gingerly opened the door, which pushed inward on its ridiculously squeaky hinges.

The candles had long-since burned out, and Felicity was in the middle of silently pulling off her shoes when she heard something.

"Felicity?"

At first she thought he was saying her name in his sleep, but the mattress creaked and a very awake Oliver slid from the bed, looking how she probably did — like he hadn't gotten a wink of sleep.

Felicity took him in — every disheveled inch of him — with a rush of relief that nearly floored her. She still remembered the Oliver she'd seen inside the pit, the version of him who'd never met her, the version of him who'd chosen someone else. She remembered the way he'd looked at her — without recognition, without trust — and how _wrong_ it'd felt, because this was the Oliver she knew. One who'd looked at her from the start like she was someone of fascination, one who'd looked at her since then with friendship, trust, and something more, infinitely more.

 _Her_ Oliver.

The blanket slipped carelessly from her shoulders when she rushed forward in three quick steps that shrank the distance between them to nothing. They collided with enough force to make Oliver take a step back, and before he'd caught her around the waist like she was used to, Felicity was already on her toes and kissing him full on the mouth, smiling at the memory of doing the exact same thing inside the pit.

When her ears had stopped pounding, it hit her that Oliver was being unusually still. Felicity pulled back, biting her lip in uncertainty. "Is that…okay?" she asked, wondering if he was having a touch of emotional whiplash from everything that had happened between them.

Oliver only looked at her with an inscrutable expression. "Are you all right?" he asked slowly, as if that was all he needed to know.

Felicity's first reaction to the coolness of his response was hurt, until it — belatedly — occurred to her how the situation looked. They'd fought the day before, patched up said fight in a way that could only be described as uncertain, avoided each other at dinner, and spent the rest of the night apart.

Not to mention the fact that she was sneaking in just after dawn.

Bad. The situation looked _bad_.

Fortunately, when Felicity got nervous, her verbal faculties had a habit of rising magnificently to the occasion — _not_.

"Oliver," she said, holding his face in her hands. " _Promise_ me you won't freak when I tell you what I was doing with Nyssa all night."

A part of her wished she'd phrased that better.

Oliver looked immediately (and understandably) wary at the mention of Nyssa, and she felt his arms tighten around her in response. "You're cold," he said, feeling her forehead with a frown. "Did something happen?"

Felicity had been about to explain, she really had, but a wave of nausea hit her when she remembered the amount of mulled wine she'd had to warm herself up (wasted, apparently) and the amount of wine she'd had at dinner the night before.

She clutched at his arm, her hand over her mouth.

Oliver bent to look at her in concern. "Felicity?"

In hindsight, Felicity really wished she hadn't had that much to drink. Or gone into the mystical non-scientific hole in the ground that mushroom-fumed people into seeing their worst fears.

But she'd done both, and she had a funny feeling that was about to see the consequences first-hand.

"The pit," she said through her fingers, and her knees buckled just in time for Oliver to catch her.

* * *

"I _really_ wish I hadn't done that," Felicity croaked.

Oliver sat down carefully at the edge of the mattress, not wanting to jolt her. Felicity looked very small, surrounded by the pillows and sheets in the vast bed. She smiled weakly at him, but Oliver didn't smile back. "You'll have to be more specific," he said, flatly. "Throwing up? Or jumping headfirst into the pit?"

Felicity struggled to sit up. "It wasn't headfirst," she muttered. "For the record, I fell in."

Oliver had a feeling that there was more to her story, but he didn't want to press her for the details when she was this sick. He didn't need to, given what he remembered about his first experience in the pit.

Instead, he felt the pulse at her throat and wrists, and she let him. It raced frantically beneath his fingertips, but her skin was cool to the touch, and bleached — like the pit had drained her.

"You promised not to freak," she said, watching him take her pulse. "That frown —" her thumb rubbed gently between his eyebrows "—counts as freaking. Pre-cursor to freaking, but still."

Oliver shot her a look. "Did you think, for a second, I'd be okay with you doing this?" he said, using all his self-control not to start another fight. "Felicity — you of all people know what I've seen in there. I _told_ you everything. After that, how could you just —"

" _Just_ what, Oliver? What?" Felicity forced herself up by leaning on the headboard, her face whiter than ever.

Oliver jerked his head, because he didn't want to fight again — not about Damien. "I know you had your reasons," he said, slowly, "and I don't know what Nyssa told you about the pit, but it is just about _the_ furthest thing you want inside your head. The pit will break down any mental barriers you have and _warp_ any sign of fear — even latent weaknesses you never knew you had — into the worst nightmares of your life."

"I _know_ ," she said, stubbornly. "I saw a lot of things in there, things we will eventually talk about because we're like that — we talk about our nightmares instead of what movie to rent on a Thursday night. One of those things — those fears — was my dad. I'm afraid of him, Oliver, and I know why. We both do. But what I don't know is how to face down that fear."

Oliver felt a surge of remorse at what he already knew, and he shifted closer to hold her. Felicity's shoulders stayed rigid with tension, and it wasn't until Oliver settled back against the headboard with her on his chest that she relaxed, curling into his warmth with a small sound of relief.

It was a long moment of silence, punctuated only by the soft rustlings of them adjusting to fit each other, nervous hands, soft limbs, and heavy heads.

"You told me," Felicity said, her hand over his heart, "that you faced your fears inside the pit. One of those fears was what the League could do to us, what Ra's could do to us. You went in there, faced the worst nightmares of your life, and beating them helped you remember who you were — who you wanted to _be_."

"I had help," Oliver reminded her.

Felicity smiled grudgingly. "You did," she agreed. "And like it or not, the pit helps me see clearly. I know — I know it's meant to confuse me. I know that's what it's supposed to do, and I can't explain it, but if there's any way of figuring out who I am — it's by facing my fears. Facing _him_ …inside the pit."

Oliver traced slow circles in Felicity's skin as he thought about what she'd just told him. "I don't like it," he said, finally.

"I know." She gave him a gentle squeeze around the middle and looked up at him with a small smile. "And I love you for it."

Oliver gathered Felicity's face in his hands, studying her as he stroked the hair from her face. Tired as she was, she let him see her — all of her, freely given. Her eyes fluttered closed when Oliver pressed his lips to her forehead. "Next time," he said, against her skin, "I'm coming with you."

To his surprise, Felicity didn't protest, but settled against him with a sleepy noise of contentment, her cheek pillowed on his shoulder. "Deal," she said.

* * *

The sun was blazingly hot over the gilded rooftops when Oliver walked into the sparring courtyard. Nyssa was dueling Sara, the two of them a blur of white and bronze, dark and gold. Sara met Nyssa's staff move for move; Oliver caught the glimmer of her teeth as she smiled, teasing Nyssa as they fought.

She sensed his approach almost immediately, and caught Sara's Bo staff with a single move. "What have we here?" she said, and the gleam in her eyes made him sure that she'd been expecting him.

"Ollie," Sara said, catching her breath. "Everything okay?"

Oliver wordlessly turned to the waiting rack of weapons. He chose two identical swords with ease, and slid one of them across the stones to Nyssa.

"Pick up your sword," he said, brusquely.

"Ollie —"

Nyssa held up her hand. "No," she said, watching him with her inscrutable smile. "He cannot be stopped."

Oliver turned his back, ignoring Sara's worried stare as he waited for Nyssa to pick up her weapon.

Nyssa twirled her sword. "Begin," she said.

Oliver went for her before she could even swing. Their blades crashed, and Nyssa danced out of his reach, whipping her blade behind her like it weighed nothing. Every inch of Oliver's skin felt unbearably hot, his limbs humming with the fierce tension that was no match for the murderous fury he was hard-pressed to control.

Nyssa told him that love would make him strong. It did, because this time, she'd gone too far. After all she knew about the pit, and what Oliver had been through because of it, she'd still brought Felicity to the darkness.

Even if Felicity had jumped in of her own accord, Nyssa as good as did the pushing.

Oliver feinted and slashed, his muscles remembering old moves that he hadn't used for too long. Nyssa wasn't smiling anymore, and he had no intention of stopping. Again and again their swords sparked off each other, until Oliver began to lose the natural rhythm of push and retreat.

There was only pushing now.

Oliver's sword sliced the air beneath Nyssa's throat, and he heard a dim sound of warning from the spectators, quickly drowned out by the roaring in his ears.

Someone was shouting _stop_. Oliver heard, but he didn't.

Nyssa's sword flew out of her grasp and she rolled across the ground to recover it. Oliver pursued, and she whirled in a blur of jet black, her blade shining brighter than a falling star under the noon sun as she raised it to block —

"STOP!"

Their swords met with a deafening — and impossible — crunch. Too late, Oliver realized that a black iron staff had halted them mid-swing.

" _Stop_ ," Sara repeated. Her hands clutched the staff, imposing it firmly between them both. Her heaving throat was shiny with sweat, even though she hadn't been in the fight.

Oliver glared at Nyssa across their crossed blades. "This is not a goddamn game, Nyssa," he said, in a low voice, because it was a warning meant only for her. "Not when it comes to Felicity."

Nyssa jerked her head — in acknowledgment or apology, he wasn't sure — but Oliver dropped his sword with a dull clatter and walked straight out of the courtyard, oblivious to the watching eyes all around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooo. Until the next update. Hopefully I'm not killing you from boredom.


	57. The Impossible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloooo. Haven't stayed up late writing like this for a while. And we're over 200K for Legacies. Congrats guys, I've managed to completely exceed my story mapping estimations.

Felicity looked over from her monitor. "That's good," she said, scanning the nanite design mockup on the screen. "Now you just need to link up the micro-sensors to the —"

Oliver tapped one of the colored sectors. "— this one?" he asked.

"Yup. Then you have to adjust dispersion specs —"

"— like that?"

Felicity nipped her lower lip to hide a smile at Oliver's expression of utter concentration. Once she'd gotten past the weirdness of seeing Oliver in front of a computer and giving him tech-speak instructions to work on said computer, she realized that he had an intuitive sense of what she meant and hence didn't entirely suck under supervision. Which shouldn't have surprised her. Oliver wasn't stupid, far from it, and he was a quick learner — in spite of certain bad cover stories that made him look otherwise.

In comparison to her non-existent skill with a bow and arrow, it was pretty amazing to see how much he could do with instructions, even if he may not have completely understood what he was doing. Maybe her inner nerd had rubbed off on him.

"Right, now just…" Felicity reached around him and flicked her fingertip across the glass to send the simulation mockup over to her computer, before going back to working on the nanite's hacker programming.

But not before she caught sight of the reflections in the monitors — namely the peanut gallery that had gathered to watch her and Oliver work.

Felicity sighed, and spun around for a quick headcount. Barry, Ray, Cisco and Caitlin — four peanuts. "You guys _do_ know that you're staring, right?" she said, pointedly.

Oliver had apparently been oblivious to the super-subtle staring (then again, he was probably used to people gawking at him), but he looked over anyway, with a mildly bemused expression on his face.

Barry hiccoughed and glanced across the worktable at Caitlin — who'd been watching them with her chin propped up on her hand — in a silent, yet not-so-subtle plea for help. "Caitlin and I were just saying — um…"

Caitlin shrugged and crinkled her nose in a smile. "You two are so cute," she said, and Barry awkwardly brought one hand up to shield his face from view.

With Barry trying to disappear into the background, Felicity raised her eyebrows at Ray, who abruptly stopped laughing when he realized that she was waiting for his explanation. "I mean…" he said, gesturing vaguely with a sheaf of blueprints, "it's just…"

Cisco pulled the lollipop out of his mouth. "Amazing," he finished, squinting at them in disbelief. "It's like watching a caveman use a scalpel with supervision."

Felicity hastily converted her laugh into a dry — very dry — cough. Oliver shot Cisco a barbed look and steered Felicity back towards the computers with a hand in the small of her back. Thankfully, the rest of them took it as a sign to go back to work, but Felicity's ears were still burning.

Oliver worked beside her in silence for about two minutes before she felt him lean close. "It's not — _that_ — surprising, is it?" he said, in her ear.

Felicity's typing never missed a beat, even when she was trying not to crack up. She gave him a playful nudge with her hip, not taking her eyes off the screen. "Not to me," she answered, straight-faced. "Then again — the lazy playboy idiot thing never really worked on me, did it?"

Oliver ducked his head and kissed her quickly on the cheek, probably because he knew she'd giggle from his beard tickling her skin. "I'm glad it didn't," he agreed, and smiled when Felicity blushed.

"I'm pretty sure they have a point, though," she said, leaning her hip against the worktable. "Not that I don't like having you around, but why _are_ you here?"

Oliver continued to type, but she felt him tense slightly, classic sign that he was about to give an evasive answer. "I'm just making sure you're all right," he said, with a shrug.

Felicity lifted her eyebrows. "Because working with computers is _so_ dangerous, you mean."

"It's been two days since the pit, and you still shiver —"

"—I do _not_ —"

Oliver continued listing his observations, despite her obvious attempt to interrupt. "You're dizzy in the mornings, and yesterday you fell out of bed when you tried to get up."

Felicity self-consciously rubbed a spot at the back of her head, where it had smacked the floor during an attempt to get out of bed. " _Yes_ ," she said, straight-faced, "but I didn't today."

Oliver folded his arms, undeterred. "Are you sure you don't want me to call a doctor?"

Felicity snorted. "To the remote Tibetan monastery?" she said, trying not to imagine the level of profanities any Starling City doctor would spout in response to the unconventional-slash-impossible request. "Your family practitioner must really love you."

"The League has doctors," Oliver said, quietly. "People get sick here too."

As much as she didn't doubt Nyssa's selectiveness as a boss, Felicity was _not_ going to see any doctor employed by the League of Assassins. They probably had more experience yanking out shrapnel and stitching up nasty sword wounds than treating pasty, dizzy twenty-six-year-olds with limited physical stamina.

"Actually," Felicity said, drumming her fingertips on the table surface, "asking you why you're keeping me company — again, _love_ that you're here with me — was a convenient segue into the 'when are you going to patch things up with Nyssa?' conversation."

Oliver blinked. "What?" he said blankly, but she'd seen the telltale shiftiness that meant she'd hit the nail on the head.

Felicity exhaled. "Really, Oliver? You went at her in front of a crowd, including Sara — who Nyssa happens to be married to, by the way. Did you really think I wouldn't hear about it?"

"Felicity, she _pushed_ you into the pit," Oliver replied, his voice tense enough to be just shy of lashing out.

Felicity glanced over her shoulder. The others were still working, but they wouldn't be for long, if the conversation continued with the turn it had just taken. She took Oliver's arm without a word and drew him out of the room.

The hallway was deserted except for them, but Oliver took a few steps forward even after she'd let go, until he was standing at the far wall with his back to her. He passed a hand over his eyes and exhaled, a slow, tired breath of air.

Felicity leaned against the wall beside him, her hands folded patiently behind her back, and waited for him to explain.

"Nyssa of all people knows what it was meant to do," he said. "The League used the pit to break initiates — Ra's tried to with me, and it came too close to doing just that. Maybe she did it to help you, maybe it was just another one of her experiments, but she lost my trust the second she watched you fall in."

" _Oliver_ ," Felicity said, shocked at the raw emotion behind his words, especially since she wasn't angry at all. And she'd been pushed into the pit. "You've known Nyssa longer than I have, you know what she's like. You can't be surprised that —"

"—I'm not." Oliver met her gaze, and she saw a flicker of sadness. "I always knew that Nyssa thought you and Sara were similar. I was happy she did — I thought it meant that she'd protect you, that whatever happened with me and the League, she'd get you out of Nanda Parbat and keep you safe."

"She would have," Felicity said, slipping her hand into his. "She _has_."

Oliver shook his head slowly, looking down at their entwined fingers. "A part of her thinks you and Sara are the same, and you are. You're both fighters. Sara's been trained and you haven't, but you always — _always_ — surprise me with how fearless you can be. Danger — fear — it makes you fight back, and there's beauty in the way something meant to make you weak turns you stronger than ever."

Oliver shut his eyes. "There's beauty in that," he said, again. "Nyssa sees it, and that's why she doesn't hold back when it comes to Sara…or you."

Felicity smiled at Oliver as he lifted a hand to brush the loose hair back from her forehead, his expression thoughtful. "She loves Sara, I know she does. And I love you, for what it's worth," he murmured, tracing the curve of her face from ear to jaw. "But I wouldn't — I couldn't — do anything to put you in danger, even though I know you're _more_ than capable of handling it. I'm just not strong enough for that. Maybe that's why I was so angry with Nyssa. I can't trust her not to put you in danger, even if it's for a reason. Because there's nothing in this world that could possibly justify that, not to me."

Felicity didn't say anything, but linked her arms through Oliver's and silently pressed her lips to his shoulder. A part of her never thought that the words would come from his mouth, but another part of her was unbelievably gratified to hear him say it.

"Hey," she said. "You know there's not a force in the world that could make me do something I didn't want to. It's one of the reasons why you're not still doing your solo-vigilante thing, and one of the _many_ reasons why I said yes to marrying you."

Oliver inclined his head. "I know."

"So please don't stay angry with Nyssa. We need people to help us, we need our friends, and Nyssa — unconventional methods aside — is one of the few people who sees you better than you see yourself." Felicity rested her chin on his shoulder with a small smile. "She's also part of the select group of badasses who can beat some sense into you, so I'm keeping her around, whether you like it or not."

Oliver finally laughed, and Felicity glowed at the sound. "As long as it's you asking," he said, finally.

"Good." Felicity patted his arm. "Let's go back in. We have something to run by you — just a little thing called a _plan_."

Oliver leaned his forehead against hers. "How shocking," he muttered.

"I know, considering how we usually ad-lib our way through life and death situations," she said, lightly. "But this time we —"

There was a shrill mechanized whine from inside the lab, one that made both of them wince.

Oliver removed his hands from his ears. "What was that?" he said, warily.

Felicity had no idea, and she'd just taken a step towards the doorway when the ground shook from the minor, not-so-good force of an explosion.

* * *

Pre-existing dizziness (minor side-effect of a fear pit) and uneven ground were _not_ a good combination. Felicity staggered into Oliver, who caught her around the waist before she lost her footing.

They looked at each other, a single instant of _what-the-freaking-hell?_ before heading straight for the door. Smoke wafted out from the lab, engulfing them in an acrid cloud of fried circuitry and scorched everything.

Felicity's eyes were watering from the smoke, but she could just make out the outline of the worktables where Barry and the others had been — and the blinking lights on the ATOM suit, pretty much the only thing that looked unscathed in the general warzone.

A hand appeared from behind the table and waved. Said hand was somehow still holding a lollipop. "We're okay!" Cisco shouted, over the sound of computer alerts going off. "We're good!"

"Are you? Are you really?" Felicity shouted back, hurriedly disabling the alarms before the machines went into defcon mode.

"What happened?" Oliver demanded, standing in the middle of the carnage.

Caitlin crawled out from under the table, while Ray pulled himself — and Cisco — off the ground. "I think Barry minimized most of the damage," she said, wiping soot from her cheeks, then added, as a scientific afterthought: "I hope we haven't been exposed to anything."

Felicity stopped dead in her tracks. "What do you mean — _exposed_? Where's Barry?"

"Right here."

Barry was breathing hard, like he'd just been running. Except for a tiny pale spot on his nose, the rest of his face was blackened from soot and static electricity crackled along his limbs like an aura, making his hair stand on end like he was an offended porcupine.

"I ran it halfway across the mountain range before it could blow a hole in the building," he wheezed, and tossed what he'd been holding onto the table. It landed with a heavy thunk, smack in the middle of the smeared table, still popping and smoking like a bowl of over-microwaved popcorn.

Felicity leaned warily over the table. It was a very fried-looking piece of metal, shaped like a human hand, last seen attached to the ATOM suit as a gauntlet.

"Oh, hey," Ray said, cheerfully. "You got my hand back."

* * *

The windows were wide open and nearly all the smoke was out of the room, which was a big help as far as thinking straight was concerned.

Still.

_Migraine. Forming. Homicidal urges. Rearing head._

Felicity pushed her glasses into her hair and massaged the bridge of her nose. They were all standing around the table, with the exception of Cisco, who was going over the suit as if he needed physical reassurance that the thing built to withstand explosions was A-okay after said explosion.

Because priorities.

"I'm sorry, but did you say it _shrank_? Like got smaller. As in — a full-sized piece of your suit, meant to fit onto your hand, went down a few thousand sizes," Felicity repeated, feeling her snark levels shoot dangerously high. "As in…you _wanted_ this to happen."

Ray nodded. "Affirmative. Well, it was supposed to, anyway." He clicked his pen and scratched behind his ear with it, oblivious to the fact that both still looked like they'd gone through some kind of army camouflage.

Felicity opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again. "Explain," she said. "A lot. Now."

Oliver put it in more articulate (and irritated) terms. "What the hell was that?" he said, with a glare that would have frozen death in its tracks.

"The plan is to use nanites to override Darhk's human programming," Ray said, making a few notes on a charred blueprint as he talked. "Which is a good plan, tried and semi-tested, but it gave me an idea on possible applications. I mean, even if we get onto the evil Big Brother ship —"

"—which we still haven't found," Felicity reminded everyone, because she wanted to make sure everyone still had a firm grasp of the distinction between _things-that-are-real_ versus _things-that-are-borderline-science-fiction_.

"—it's going to be one hell of a fight if that thing's fortified to keep people like us out. We'll be wasting time trying to carve our way through enemy lines. So I thought of a solution to that. Though — technically — I mentioned it to Cisco and he suggested a few things, but credit-wise —"

"Get," Oliver said, "to the point."

Ray grinned. "Right. My suit runs on a computer interface. The nanites do too. So I thought that they might make it possible to miniaturize — well — _me_. I could get small, sneak onto the ship, and open a loophole for you guys. Boom — element of surprise."

"It's mass-alteration theory," Caitlin chimed in, "if the nanites could be programmed to emit a transcutaneous electric pulse, it could hypothetically alter the suit's — and its contents —size and weight down to a subatomic level."

"Complete molecular control on a neural interface," Cisco said, wagging his eyebrows. "Pretty freakin' cool, am I right?"

Barry raised his hand. "I know I'm usually the first one to propose crazy theories here," he said. "But you tried it on the suit, and it _literally_ blew up in your face. Do you know how much breakfast I burned off running across mountains like that?"

"Not _literally_ ," Ray chuckled, like Barry had made a cute comment about the weather. "Just the gauntlet. I mean, what kind of idiot would I be to try something like this on my whole suit? The catalytic reaction off the fuel cells in the belt alone would be enough to turn all this into a fresh crater. I may veer occasionally into _crazy_ , but I'm not an idiot."

"I'm with Barry," Felicity said. "This — is — _crazy_. You can't shrink yourself. That's pseudoscience and probably some sleep deprivation if the suit did shrink, it would crush you like a trash compactor."

"Guys," Cisco said, looking them all in the eye. "A year ago, Ray's suit was science fiction, and Barry's powers were straight-up impossible. And the guy who started it all escaped a shipwreck and being marooned on a desert island for five years."

A smile spread across his face. "We've never really operated at industry standards for _sane_ here. The world's crazy. We're all crazy. But let's face it, all the cool stuff happens in there, and that includes a weaponized suit of armor that can shrink to the size of an ant with a person inside it. If anyone can do this, it's us."

Felicity and Oliver exchanged looks, mutually gauging where the other stood as far as smoke-out-of-ears-fury was concerned. So far, they were at dormant volcano.

"You're right," Felicity said. "It's a… _plan_ , but you should have told me _before_ you tried to shrink and risk a catalytic reaction."

Ray and Cisco glanced at each other, then back at her. "Yeah, but then Oliver would have said no," Ray explained. "I figured — do first, ask questions later. I'm a scientist. That's what we do."

Felicity shook her head. " _Men_ ," she said.

Oliver cleared his throat. "Speaking of," he added, "Ray — you and I need to have a conversation about your hand-to-hand combat."

Ray blinked. "Sorry, my what?"

Oliver looked down at Felicity when she curled her arm around his middle, hiding a smile in his shoulder because she knew what he was doing. "Your suit's not always going to function like you want it to," he said. "In case it fails — you're going to need a backup. That's yourself."

Barry laughed. "Oh, I _like_ where this is going."

Ray pulled at his collar, as if it had suddenly become a little too tight. "Just out of curiosity," he said, in a voice that was easily a few octaves higher than it should have been, "was Barry serious when he said that you shot him with arrows during training?"

There was a very pregnant pause.

"Oh-kay." Ray scribbled a quick note on a blueprint. "I'll get my Kevlar."

Oliver stretched out his hand for Ray to shake, like they'd just made a pact. "Good instinct," he said, with a smile.

* * *

"You're not _really_ going to hurt Ray, are you?" Felicity asked, craning her neck to get a good look at Oliver's face. It was harder to do when he was carrying her on his back, but it didn't mean she couldn't try.

Oliver followed the path her flashlight traced through the tunnel, oblivious to her scrutiny. "This way?"

"Yup." Felicity pressed her knees into his sides. "So are you?"

She swore Oliver rolled his eyes a little bit, but she couldn't be sure, what with the profound lack of illumination in disused underground labyrinths.

"Did I ever tell you how Yao Fei taught me to defend myself?" Oliver asked, as if it was a story about how he'd strolled into a pet store one day and bought a turtle.

" _Yes_ ," Felicity answered, almost breathless with exasperation. "Vividly. Why do you think I'm asking?"

Oliver began the uphill descent without so much as a change in breaths. "I won't hurt him," he promised. "Ray can be reckless and unbelievably naive, but he has a good heart."

"Believe it or not, that's not doing much to dispel the mental image of you flipping him like a pancake."

Oliver huffed a laugh. "Don't tempt me."

Felicity let Oliver climb in silence for a while. As fun as it was for her, she didn't completely see why the piggyback thing was necessary, but it had been one of his specified conditions before he agreed to go where they were going. Like he was worried she'd keel over mid-hike.

"A little dizziness never hurt anyone, you know," she said, in his ear.

Oliver made a non-committal noise. "I know I can't change your mind about doing this, and it won't be the first time that I'll need you to humor me, when I volunteer to help carry some of the burden for you."

Felicity hid a smile in Oliver's neck. There was something unbelievably cute about his acceptance of her stubbornness — something they had in common — and his earnest determination to do everything he could to make it easier for her.

It wasn't the first time, but Felicity wondered what Oliver would be like as an expectant father — whether he'd run out in the middle of night to buy ice cream or frozen waffles or whatever weird food craving she had at the moment, whether he'd read all the parenting books because she was too pregnant to worry about anything other than making sure that the little person inside her made it into the world. She wondered if he'd massage and soothe the little aches and gripes that came with carrying a child, she wondered if he'd cook for her and remind her to take her folic acid tablets.

What she did know — in the absence of a pregnancy or any concrete experience regarding the fact — was that Oliver would get anxious about the doctor's appointments, about baby-proofing the apartment, and making sure that the little corner of the world their son or daughter would grow up in was a safe place, a good place. Above all, she knew without question that he would be there for her, that it would always be the two of them.

It was a phenomenally bad time to think about getting pregnant (evil grandfather alert), but the thought made Felicity smile, in spite of everything. Even in the worst of times, the promise of a future and the hope that went with it — those things weren't so easy to take away, and Felicity loved Oliver for giving her that.

"We're here," Oliver said, suddenly.

Felicity opened her eyes. The steady warmth inside her chest and the heat from Oliver's body had distracted her from the fact that the air temperature had been dropping all the while.

She slid from Oliver's back, landing with a soft sound that was reflected at them from a dozen different corners in the dark cavern. Wordlessly, instinctively, they linked hands, as if they were standing in the face of something huge and terrible.

"It's not," she said, both to him and herself. She'd seen what the pit could show her. Fear — the worst kinds of it — but also how to be fearless, and face the demons in her mind.

In the faraway reddish glow of a dying flame, Felicity turned to look at Oliver. His expression was curiously still, a way for him to master his emotions in front of a _thing_ , an entity, whose sole purpose was to warp and twist. She wanted to ask if he was sure, because he didn't have to do this. But she knew better than that.

"It looks the same," he said, and turned to her with a faint smile he couldn't possibly have meant.

Felicity pressed a kiss to the back of his hand. "You're not," she reminded him.

Oliver nodded, and as the wind began to rise in the low keening moan of a dying beast, Felicity walked to the edge of the pit. Her hand was still in his when she spun around to face him, her heel just — _just_ — shy of the abyss.

"Ready?" she asked.

A shower of dust cascaded unseen into the blackness when Oliver followed her, right up to the ledge. "Ready," he said.

They counted silently in heartbeats.

_Three._

_Two._

_One._

They jumped, and the dark rushed up to meet them.

They were dreaming before they even hit the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Needless to say, pretty much everything in the next chapter will NOT be real.
> 
> Also, I have no idea if you care BUT DC AND COMIC CON OH MY FREAKING GOD. Suicide Squad, Batman v Superman - I have to say their marketing team does an amazing job. Even if the movies end up being meh, their trailers give me chills.
> 
> And I thought Marvel usually left DC on suicide watch. Looks like that might change. Fingers crossed.


	58. Turn the Tables

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer alert: Literally 99.9% of everything in this chapter is a dream. Please don't kill me over the angst. There's some You're His Hope references in the chapter, just a little warning.

Oliver woke with a gasp, sucking in a desperate heave of air like he'd been drowning. He was on his feet, but his vision spun from a combination of throbbing pain and lost blood. He was wounded — or at least, it seemed like he was.

He'd experienced his fair share of injuries — both internal and external — to know the difference between an imagined pain and a real one. This was a phantom wound, and it bled somewhere inside his chest, turning each heartbeat into a broken sound.

There was blood on his face, a fine mist of salt and rust that he could taste on his lips. Already he could feel the imprint of it at the back of his mind, the single, savage motion of slashing through living flesh.

But whose?

"You've lost… _boy_ ," said a voice.

Oliver thought he'd never hear it again, the kindly, benevolent voice so capable of shaping cruel words and seductive lies. The beetle-black eyes and weathered face, the inhuman strength and gleaming dark sword that had seen more blood and death than he ever would…

The Demon himself lay old and twisted and broken at Oliver's feet, blood sliding wetly from a deep wound in his neck. Oliver looked down at his hands, and sure enough, he was holding the black crescent sword, half its length glistening with fresh blood.

There was too much blood on the weapon to be from a slash to the neck, Oliver noted. Dispassionate and jaded, even though everything he'd hoped for was so close to happening before his eyes.

Oliver laid the sword down and knelt by Ra's' side. "You're dying," he stated, without emotion. "How have I lost?"

Ra's bared his teeth in a bloodied smile. "I do not go into the abyss alone," he rasped. "That is my victory. In dying, I take your humanity with me — one way or another."

It was a riddle, a cruel one made out of spite. "Because I killed you," Oliver said. "You think I've lost my humanity because I've taken your life."

Blood mixed with spittle welled from Ra's' lips when he laughed. "No," he said. "No, boy. I have never spoken to you of my resurrections, but when a dying man touches the waters of the Lazarus pit, it restores him — with a cost. Every time he draws on its healing power to reverse the will of nature, nature takes something from him to balance the scales."

Oliver narrowed his eyes. "What does it take?"

Ra's clasped the back of Oliver's neck and drew him down with a shaking grasp to whisper in his ear. "A memory," he rasped. "That which holds him to life, that which makes him human. Mine was lost, long, long ago — and I will never know what it might have been, but I know yours. I know what your beloved's must be."

Again Ra's laughed, a ghoulish sound, delight gleaming in his black eyes like a malicious beast uttering its final curse. "That is my victory. I have killed your beloved today — the little one who burned bright with humanity, the little one with the sun's blessing in her smile. I killed her today, and one way or another, she will be forever lost to you."

Oliver felt the ache in his chest sharpen, as if Ra's was telling the truth. But it wasn't possible. It was all coming back to him now, whether in recognition of a reality or a half-remembered dream, he wasn't sure. The underground bunker, a war raging around them, his friends and family in the balance. Ra's al Ghul's sword pressing between his shoulders, a wordless threat to run him through the heart.

His heart.

He'd been the one…not her.

 _Not her_.

Tearing himself away from Ra's al Ghul's final cruelty, Oliver lifted his head, searching the darkened room for signs of her. "Felicity?" he said, hoarsely.

For a moment, he wanted it to be a lie. He wanted her to have never been involved in the war, to have never been anything to him, if it meant that she wouldn't be lying on the cold stone ground, battered and bent and —

" _Oliver_ ," came the faintest whisper in reply.

— dying.

Oliver moved without volition, without thought, towards the source of the broken sound, still hoping, still _praying_ that he was wrong.

He wasn't.

He found her lying on her side with her eyes closed, her whole body curled inward as if to protect itself from pain. For a moment, he thought that she might be sleeping, until he saw that the ground beneath her was wet with blood.

"Felicity," Oliver breathed. He sank to his knees beside her, stirring the pool of blood that she'd been lying in, unnoticed and alone.

His fault.

Her eyes didn't open, but she made an involuntary noise of pain when he gathered her towards him, cradling her in his arms like all she had to fear in the world were nightmares, not the pain of a mortal wound carrying her away with every weakening heartbeat.

A painful tightness rose in Oliver's throat when he saw her hands, limp and bloodied, but still pressed to the stab wound in her chest like she'd tried to stop the bleeding herself, even though she knew it would probably kill her. She'd coughed on her own blood; her lips and chin were dark with it, almost black in the half-light.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, stroking the hair back from her face. He touched her cheek, her neck, her hand, as if it could bring the warmth back into her body.

Felicity's eyelids fluttered at the sound of his voice and she woke, as if she'd been in a dream. For a moment, she just looked confused, like she couldn't remember why he was there. "Oliver?" she whispered, and he felt her shoulders tense as it all came rushing back. "Oli-Oliver. I tried to — I tried to stop him. Are you — is Ra's —"

"Gone," Oliver promised. "He's gone."

Her hand gripped his sleeve tight. "Is everyone —?"

Oliver nodded, and forced himself to smile. "They are. Everyone's all right, Felicity. Everyone's safe. All you have to do —" His voice shook with the lie he was about to tell, but he meant to tell it anyway.

"—all you have to do is get better. J-just stay awake, help's on the way, so just stay awake, okay? Barry — Barry can fix this. Barry can take you to the hospital. He's on his way, so…"

Felicity looked down at her chest as he spoke, and Oliver broke off into silence, because he couldn't do anything to hide the truth from her. Not that. " _Oh_ ," she said, softly, holding her bloody hands up in front of her. "Oh."

Oliver shook his head fiercely. "Felicity, you're all right. I'm going to get you out of here, and you're going to be just fine. We're going to see our friends, we're going to see the Foundry, and we'll be together. Everything's going to be just like before, okay?"

Her stained lips curved in a peaceful smile. "Okay," she said, and reached up to hold his face. Oliver bent his head to help her, leaning into her touch. Her fingertips trembled — the irreversible bone-deep shiver of the dying — but she just kept smiling.

"It's okay, Oliver. It's okay," she repeated, and Oliver realized that she was comforting him, because she knew without him needing to tell her that she was dying.

 _Just like Tommy_. The lies choked him, then, and Oliver knew he was crying. The tears burned on his skin, in vicious contrast to Felicity lying cold and smiling in his arms.

"It doesn't hurt," she said, and Oliver saw that she was crying too. A trail of silvery tears ran from her eyes and disappeared into her hair, but she still kept smiling, cupping his face in her small hand, a hand that had held his heart for longer than she ever knew, one that would hold it for longer than she lived.

"I can bring you back," Oliver said, not caring whether it was true, whether it was just another one of Ra's al Ghul's lies. Because all he wanted to do was give her a reason to hope, in her dying moments. She deserved more, infinitely more, and a lie was all he could give her.

"I can bring you back," he said, again. "The Lazarus pit — it can bring you back."

Felicity's eyes grew suddenly wide. "No!" she said, fiercely. "Don't —"

She broke off in a spasm of coughing, and Oliver held her tight until it passed, his heart in his throat. The moment was drawing near, the last breath, and he wasn't ready — God, he wasn't ready.

"Ol-Oliver," she gasped. "Don't — don't use it. P-promise me you won't use it. Not the pit — not…not the pit."

"Why?" he asked, not understanding how she knew. "It'll bring you back, and —"

In a final show of strength she barely had, Felicity lifted her head and kissed him. There was blood in her mouth and tears on her lips, but it was unspeakably precious to him — to them. Oliver kissed her back, gently, breathing her in just as surely as she was doing the same. Memorizing contours and scents and tastes and sounds — the hundreds of ineffable things that made her real to him, that reminded him why he couldn't lose her.

So how could she bear to lose him?

They pulled apart to catch their breaths, and Oliver touched his forehead to Felicity's, willing her to understand. She gave a soft sigh, and he felt her hand slip away from his face, until it came to rest above his heart.

"Because I want to remember you," she answered, in a voice that never wavered. "I want to remember this, and even if it brings me back, I won't be _me_ without you. So please — _please_ —"

Felicity kissed the corner of his mouth, soft as the brush of a broken wing.

"Please don't bring me back," she whispered.

Oliver held her close without a word, because he couldn't promise that — not even if it would make her happy, at the very end. Not if it meant losing her. Felicity closed her eyes for the last time, and Oliver listened to her breaths grow slower and farther apart, as if she was only going to sleep.

Then —

"Felicity?"

She hadn't moved at all; nothing was different. She was still curled up in his arms, her head pillowed in the curve between his neck and shoulder, the ghost of her last smile lingering on her face. But he listened for the sound of her heart and heard only the rush of a final breath leaving her parted lips, and the hollow silence in its wake.

And a choice he had to make.

As Oliver bent to kiss Felicity's forehead with shaking lips, the dream around him began to shift unseen, and he was still holding her in the moment where everything changed.

* * *

"I know I'm late, Diggle, you don't have to tell me," Oliver said, glancing at his watch as he walked.

"No, no, Oliver." Diggle's voice was somehow a mixture of laborious patience and exasperation, and Oliver knew he was checking the time too. "There's _late_ , and then there's you. Mr. Kord arrived ten minutes ago and he's not exactly happy to be kept waiting."

Oliver sidestepped an intern with four coffee cups running in the opposite direction. "Tell Walter I had an accident with a cup of coffee."

Diggle sighed. "Not that it's saying much, but Felicity was always better at the excuses."

A silence followed, the one that always came when someone brought up her name. Oliver slowed, eventually coming to a stop in the middle of the street. "I know," he said, and faced the main road, watching the cars rush past him on their way to somewhere else.

Always somewhere else, always moving, the way the human body used adrenaline to push through pain and injury. Keeping himself moving, to forget, anything to stop himself from thinking about the open wound inside him.

"You gonna be okay?" Diggle asked, finally.

Oliver nodded, more for his own benefit than Diggle's. "I will," he said, with a lightness he didn't feel. "I'll see you at the office."

"All right. See you there." Diggle hung up with a quiet click, and Oliver shut his eyes, feeling the ground rock beneath his feet. He counted three deep breaths, three deep breaths for him to board up the cracks and keep moving on.

It was what she would have wanted, after all.

Oliver turned and started to walk. He picked up the pace, his eyes on his phone. He needed to give Walter a call, and tell his sister about dinner at Diggle and Lyla's. Seven-thirty, and they couldn't be late —

He bumped into someone's shoulder with uncharacteristic clumsiness, hard enough to send the phones in their hands flying across the concrete. Oliver dropped to his knees immediately to gather up the pieces.

"I'm so sorry," he said, shaking his head. "If it's broken, you can bill me for —"

He halted mid-sentence, because he caught sight of who he'd jostled.

Felicity brushed her hair behind one ear, oblivious to the fact that he was staring at her. It was newly short, coming to just below her chin in soft curls of ashy brown and gold. The choppiness of it should have looked untidy, and the length should have aged her, made her strange to him. But it didn't. She looked utterly like herself, sprite-like, energetic, _alive_.

She crouched by their phones and picked them up in her small hands. They were the exact same model, virtually impossible to tell apart. He watched her turn them over to check for scratches, and the smile on her face when their screens lit up.

"Congratulations," she said, holding out his phone. "Looks like our lives are still completely intact. No need for apocalypse protocols."

She brushed off her skirt and got to her feet, her arms aloft by her sides like she was trying to fly, treading the achingly familiar middle ground between clumsiness and grace.

Oliver didn't know what to say. He'd let her go — yet here she was, standing in front of him completely by coincidence. Bright blue eyes and the same wide smile that dimpled her cheeks, looking at him like the last three years of their lives had never happened.

And they hadn't, not to her.

"So…do I have something on my face?" she asked, touching her cheek. "Honest question — it would _not_ be the first time I walked out of my apartment with sesame seeds around my mouth from that morning bagel."

Oliver shook his head quickly, feeling foolish. "I'm just look like someone I knew — a long time ago."

"Thanks…?" Felicity looked unsure whether to take it as a compliment. "I mean — know who you are — you're Mr. Queen."

Oliver ducked his head in an attempt to hide the unintended smile that crept onto his face, at the memory of a bright day three years before, when he'd walked into the Queen Consolidated IT office with a bullet-ridden laptop and met someone who would become irreversibly important to him…until the end.

"No," he said, softly. "Mr. Queen was my father."

"Right, but he's dead. I mean — he drowned. But you didn't." Felicity pinched her lips together and snapped her fingers as if she was reprimanding herself. "Which means you can bump into me — a complete stranger — at…" she checked her watch, "nine twenty-three on a Wednesday morning, and listen to me babble."

In spite of everything, Oliver felt the lost three years slip away, in the face of this remarkable — impossible — woman, whose smile could still make him feel like he was standing in the sunlight, even on a gray morning. "Felicity Smoak, right?" he said, because what did he have to lose? "Of Palmer Technologies?"

Felicity's eyebrows shot up. "Oh god, you know who I am. That's…unbelievable — I mean, really? I was just about to tell you — my fiancé and I really admire what you've done. Besides the whole being-back-from-the-dead thing, you're the guy who started from ground zero. Queen Consolidated, now Queen Incorporated…you don't know me that well, but persisting, starting over…it's kinda important to me."

Fiancé. Oliver glanced at her hand, and sure enough — there it was. A diamond ring gleaming on her finger, a new start, a new life.

Oliver cleared his throat, because he realized Felicity was waiting for him to say something. "That's very kind," he said, trying to stay in the present. "Are you…"

Oliver paused, because knew he wasn't meant to ask it, but he had to. "Are you happy?"

Instead of looking offended, Felicity only looked thoughtful, like no one had ever asked her the question before. She glanced down at her ring, and back at him again. "I am," she said, and he saw the heartbreaking truth of it in her eyes. "I'm happy."

Oliver inclined his head. "Congratulations," he said, meaning it. "Your fiancé's very lucky."

Felicity smiled at him again, the same smile that pierced his heart. "Thank you," she said shyly.

Oliver's phone started to buzz. "I should go," he said, without looking at the display. "But…I hope I'll see you soon."

Felicity tilted her head to the side. "I hope so too," she answered, but he could already see her thoughts going back to work, and her fiancé — whoever he was.

Oliver watched her go, walking in the opposite direction to where he was going. She went without a backward glance, her footsteps quick and sure, head raised and the breeze stirring her hair. He stood unmoving in the middle of the street, late to the place he was meant to be, but he wanted to look at her until the very last.

Even though she wasn't thinking of him, not in the slightest. Even though every step she took carried her towards a normal life, something he thought he might have given her — just too late.

For a long moment, Oliver thought that there was nothing else, that the single moment between them was all there was, and all there was going to be.

But something kept him rooted where he stood. It was the singular, indomitable instinct to keep her with him, and the increasing strangeness of any world where he might have let her go. Oliver looked at the busy street around him, at the clouded sky, at the bustling people.

Minutes ago, nothing would have convinced him that he was dreaming.

Now, he wasn't so sure. Because if there was one thing Felicity Smoak had shown him, it was how to fight for himself, for a life he wanted, as surely as she would always fight for him.

Any world where either of them might just _submit_ …

It was unthinkable.

Oliver started after her. "Felicity!" he said, catching her arm in the middle of the crowd.

Felicity looked back at him, her eyebrows quirked in mild confusion. "Mr. Queen?"

"Oliver," he said, taking her face in his hands. "You've always called me Oliver."

He kissed her, then, in the midst of strangers, in the center of Starling City, even though there were forces pulling them apart in this artificial world, even though the dream — the pit — was trying to keep them away from each other.

Because it was his worst fear, as much as he'd tried to fight it at first, that Felicity would leave him, forget him, and live…love without him. As selfish as it was, he couldn't imagine living in that world.

For him, the cacophonous noises from the street faded gradually to quiet. For him, there was just the feel of Felicity's lips and the sound of his beating heart, holding her face in his hands and being unwilling to let her go, all things acutely truthful to him in this world made of deceptions.

Oliver knew it was his Felicity — not an illusion from the pit — when she smiled into their kiss, and her hands rose to encircle his, like they — who they were — had been reclaimed.

" _Oliver_ ," she said, and just like that, Oliver woke with a start.

* * *

"They're going to die, you know," Damien said, and displaced her pawn with a graceful flick of his wrist, replacing it smoothly with his knight.

There was movement in the corner of Felicity's eye, as sudden as a body falling to the ground, but she didn't — she couldn't — look. There was already a line of conquered white pieces beside her father's hand. She needed to concentrate.

"Do you know what the game of chess symbolizes?" Damien tapped his fingertip against the board, producing a series of hollow rattling, like the ticking of a clock.

Felicity lifted her head. "Black versus white," she said, laconically. "Good versus evil. Egomaniacal psychopaths versus normal human beings."

A smile twisted Damien's thin mouth. He was malevolent, in every sense of the word, and Felicity wondered — not for the first time — how it was possible that they were related.

" _Normal_ ," he repeated, the word flavored with mockery. He passed a hand over his mouth, as if to contain a laugh. "No, that's not a word I'd use for you. You are my daughter, whether you like it or not, and that precludes you from being anything close to mundane."

Felicity knocked over his pawn with more viciousness than was probably necessary. "I don't think we share the same definition of _mundane_ ," she answered. "Offense intended."

Damien waited until she'd settled her rook in the new square before he made his move, claiming another pawn for himself. Felicity gritted her teeth at the flicker in the corner of her eye, another body crumpling to the ground.

"You're quite right, of course. The game of chess does possess a duality to it, does it not?" Damien said, conversationally. "Black and white, servant and master, angel and demon — all dualities in the game of chess. But what you fail to grasp, I think, is the nature of decisions and repercussions. Every move you make can alter the course of the game. Every piece you lose has the potential to endanger your king — or force mine into submission. If you possess the conviction to make the necessary sacrifices, that is."

As if to demonstrate his point, Damien gently twirled her fallen bishop. "To play the game of chess, sacrifices must be made."

"There's no _must_ ," Felicity retorted. "There's always another way. It doesn't — have — to be like this."

Damien only looked at her. His eyes were the color of midnight frost, utterly merciless, devoid of human warmth and empathy. "Doesn't it, though?" he said, and turned his head.

It was like in the stories. Death was at her back, laying its icy hand on her shoulder, and Felicity was afraid to turn.

But she did anyway, and saw what she'd been trying not to realize.

Her friends were standing motionless in the middle of the room, squares of black and white beneath their feet and a row of fallen bodies lying to the side of the life-size board. Their eyes were open, their chests rose and fell in the regular rhythms of breathing, but they were as still as statues, waiting for her to move them.

Felicity felt her breath catch as she moved her knight to the center of the board. Diggle straightened slightly, as if the strings pulling him had gone taut, and stepped forward to take his place in the identical square. Nearly across the board, Lyla stood in place of her other knight, as oblivious to her surroundings as the rest of them.

Gradually, as if she was seeing it for the first time, Felicity took in the whole board as it was, seeing her friends instead of faceless pieces, instead of the allegory they were meant to be. Diggle and Lyla were her knights, Roy and Thea her rooks, Sara and Nyssa instead of bishops, and standing beside the king's empty square, Oliver was her queen.

Damien took her rook, and Roy fell forward without a sound, still and lifeless.

"You're their king, you know," Damien said, setting her rook down in his collection of claimed pieces. "The most important piece in the game. They'll die to protect you, but all you can do is move one step in either direction. You're trapped, Felicity, and you'll die with them unless you accept who you are."

"And what's that?" Felicity snapped. "Your daughter? Oracle? Or your enemy?"

Damien set his queen down with a _crack_ , a sharp sound that made her flinch. "Accept the darkness within you and submit," he said, calmly. "Before your friends lie dead at your feet, and I have you by the throat."

Felicity jerked her head. "I control ORACLE," she reminded him, trembling with anger. "I _destroyed_ your systems with the Brother Eye virus. You've gone into hiding because of me."

Damien made a chiding noise, like she was an impolite child. "No, Felicity. You have not beaten me. You have won a battle, not the war, and make no mistake — I am part of something greater than you know. You may be on the side of the angels, but I answer to an _immense_ darkness, one that has held the keys to this world as long as there were fools like your friends to call themselves protectors."

"HIVE," Felicity breathed, because she'd forgotten. In the struggle against her father and herself, she'd almost forgotten about the bigger picture — bigger than all of them. HIVE was the source of all their problems, the many-headed creature that wore her father's face only for the moment.

"If I kill you," she said, almost to herself, "I can't go after HIVE. If I want to make a difference, I _can't_ kill you. Not…yet."

"But you want to, so very badly," Damien observed. "Righting my wrongs, atoning for _my_ sins — in blood."

Felicity shook her head. "No."

 _No_. Blood, killing — that was what Oliver tried to do, as the Hood. It was his way of correcting his father's mistakes, and it may have seemed like the dark justice a place like Starling City deserved, a little bit more darkness to return it to the light.

But there was always another way.

"There's always another way," she said, a slow smile dawning on her face. "ORACLE — that's what this all started with. You want to save the world with it, but you don't understand what that means. You can't trust people like Oliver, like Diggle, and so many others with _good_ hearts and _good_ intentions to save their cities. That's why you're going to burn it down — because you don't trust, you don't _hope_."

She inhaled, and she could taste the daylight on her lips, filling her with the promise of another day. "I do," she whispered. "I'm going to take ORACLE. I'm going to change it, and I'm going to use it — to help people save the world."

Damien had been watching her as she spoke, and she saw him now — every inch of him crackling with dark fury at her defiance.

"You _stupid_ girl," he roared, and the table shook from the force of his hands slamming into the table. Felicity rocked back in her seat, every bodily instinct shrilling in warning. "You are meddling in things beyond your comprehension."

Felicity shoved her chair back. "Don't talk to me like I'm a child!" she shouted, bristling with rebellion. "I'm not your —"

Damien snatched her wrist in a bone-breaking grasp before she could dart away, keeping her where she was. "Do _not_ cross me," he said, from across the board. "Because I have been playing this game for longer than you can imagine, and you _will_ lose."

Felicity's face was white and strained from the pain in her arm, and she looked down at the pieces with the words choked in her throat, at the game that she'd been losing.

A game she'd been forced to play.

_Felicity Smoak — declare your own terms._

_Fight him — in your own way._

Make _him fight the war on those terms, and those terms alone._

When Felicity raised her eyes to her father's face again, they blazed with open defiance.

" _No_ ," she said, and swept her arm across the chessboard.

The pieces scattered with a deafening crash, each falling with the booming sound of a thunderclap. The ground shook beneath their feet, tremors widening into chasms along the white windowless walls, and Felicity tore her wrist from Damien's grasp. She wasn't going to play his game, because she was going to make her own rules.

And he was going to play by them, whether he liked it or not.

The board went flying across the room; it cracked against the wall and snapped cleanly down the middle as if it had been bent by invisible hands. Felicity was smiling in triumph when seized the edge of the table and heaved. It overturned with the weightlessness of a blowing leaf, and the game was well and truly over.

Felicity was breathing hard like she'd been running, but she squared her shoulders and looked her father in the eye. A hand brushed suddenly against hers, and Felicity looked around. Oliver — as awake as their friends standing behind him — smiled silently in response, and they turned hand in hand to face her father.

"No more games," she said, and a fissure exploded in the ground at her feet. The breach raced across the ground between father and daughter, as deep and drawn as a battle line.

"You're making a mistake today," Damien promised. "You _will_ regret this."

The walls gave a deep, shuddering groan, but instead of crumbling away like stone and concrete, they splintered into a million mirrored segments that showed them all — two armies, two opposing sides, about to clash for the last time.

"I don't think so," Felicity replied, without hesitation. "Now — shall we begin?"

As if in assent, the glass blew inward in a hail of jagged shards and plunged the dream into darkness.

* * *

 

Felicity woke on her side, curled up on the ground like she'd been asleep. And she had been. It felt like she'd dreamed for a lifetime, and Felicity gasped in relief when she felt the warm touch of Oliver's hands on her face.

"Felicity," he said, as she held him tight, burying her face in his chest.

"I know what to do," she said, her voice shaking. Not from fear, or cold — but elation, because she knew, she _knew_ what she wanted to do.

Reclaim Oracle. Make it hers. Stop her father. Whatever — it took.

Felicity kissed Oliver, making it last. "I know who I am," she whispered, a secret just for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, hope that was a decent read. I kinda indulged myself on the death scene (and afterwards) because *spoiler alert* I didn't end up taking that path in You're His Hope. But yeah I dug up Tommy's death scene from S1 and that thing still makes me weep every time I watch it.
> 
> The chess game was really fun to write too, especially when she flips over the board because that's pretty much my thing.
> 
> Anyways, until the next update :)


	59. A Matter of Trust

Apparently it was becoming a thing. Survive the pit, sanity intact, and there was a free campfire in the works. Not usually Felicity's cup of tea, but after being underground in a claustrophobic pit for hours, she didn't think some fresh air and open sky was a bad thing.

The courtyard was as deserted as it had been when Felicity sat with Nyssa and tried to keep warm. Today the moon was as full and round as a pearl, and Felicity — born and raised in cities all her life — could have watched it in the sky forever.

But Felicity watched Oliver instead. The firelight added lines and shadows to his face that she had never noticed before, and with his eyes far away in thought, he looked very different from the Oliver she knew.

They'd both been quiet on the way back, each absorbed with what they'd seen. Felicity had been too busy letting her mind race ahead with the possibilities for the revamped ORACLE plan, and Oliver had been his usual taciturn self, probably in the usual guilt spiral that overtook him after seeing someone he loved hurt — whether in reality or hallucinations.

Felicity must have been mentally broadcasting worry-vibes on loudspeaker, because Oliver turned his head and caught her staring at him. But then he smiled, and just like that, he was her Oliver again.

"Are you cold?" he asked.

Felicity shook her head. Her hands were a little cool to her, but she wanted to get it all out in the open, under the sky and stars. It felt like the best way to exorcise whatever was haunting the both of them — him more than her, at this point.

"Tell me," she said.

Oliver knew what she meant without having to ask for elaboration. His gaze became distant again, like he was choosing his words very carefully.

"I wake on my feet," he began, slow and emotionless, as if he was describing it all from afar. "There's a sword in my hand — Ra's' sword — and it's dripping with blood. At first I think it's because I killed Ra's with it, because he's at my feet, dying. But before he goes, he tells me that I've lost my humanity."

Their eyes met, and Felicity waited for him to tell her what she already could guess.

"You," Oliver said, simply. "Ra's tells me about the Lazarus pit, and what it takes in return. That's why I've lost, because one way or another, I lose you. Then the pieces start to come together — I realize that there's too much blood on my sword, and I can't find you. So I call your name, hoping — _praying_ — that you don't answer. Because you're not there, you're far away from me and safe."

Oliver paused, and when he spoke again, his voice had softened. "But you do. And when I find you, you're not all right."

"Oliver." Felicity started to shake her head. "You don't have to —"

"Felicity." Oliver took her hand in both of his, and she fell silent. "Please."

Felicity sucked in a deep breath of air, steeling herself to hear what had to be a thousand times harder for him to tell. "So you find me dying," she said, as if it was a conversation about the weather, "what happens next?"

"I find you lying in a lot of blood, and I take you in my arms. You wake up, and even though I try to tell you that you're going to get better, you know — you just _know_ — that you're not going to make it. Like Tommy."

Losing his best friend was something that would haunt him for rest of his life, and Felicity went on her knees in front of Oliver, kissing his hands to try and comfort him the only way she knew how. He stroked her cheek with his thumb, a small, heartbreaking smile on his lips. "You kiss me," he said. "Just before you close your eyes, and you beg me not to bring you back with the Lazarus pit, because you don't want to forget."

"But I do," Felicity said.

"But you do," Oliver agreed. "The dream changes. I'm in Starling, on my way to some meeting, late, as always —" they both smiled, then, at the things that never changed "— and I bump into you by accident. So there you are — alive, so beautiful — smiling at me like it's the first time we've met. Then you say almost the exact same words you said four years ago, when I first walked into your office with a laptop in my hands."

Felicity winced, because even in dreams she could count on herself to be verbally non-filtered. But Oliver was still smiling, and Felicity let herself be pulled onto his lap, their hands side by side on her knees, rings gleaming warm in the firelight.

"There's a ring on your finger from someone else," Oliver said, and ran his finger lightly over the metal band he'd given her. "I don't ask who it's from, just whether you're happy, and you tell me you are. So I let you go — or I start to."

Felicity turned to look at Oliver quite suddenly, because she was having the strangest instance of déjà vu. Watching Oliver walk away, a stranger to her in the dream, and not wanting to let him go because it just felt so _wrong_.

"I realize that there's no way I could just give you up without a fight, because we've always fought for each other. That's how I realize I'm dreaming, so I go after you, and —"

"—you kiss me," Felicity finished for him, because she'd had the exact same dream, just with their positions reversed.

There was a long, charged moment of silence as the realization dawned on them both. The distance between them seemed to have shrunk, to nothing but the few inches between their faces. Felicity's arms were around Oliver's neck, his face tilted up to hers, their gazes searching without words.

"And then I kiss you," Oliver said, softly.

Felicity had always known that their fears were reflected versions of the other, but she hadn't really guessed just how much. The pit had shown them their worst fears, and it was unbelievable how exact the mirrored dreams were. How important they each were to the other, and how stubborn the both of them could be — to the point where they couldn't even _dream_ about a world where they weren't together.

It was profound, funny, solemn, and exhilarating, all at once. But neither of them said a word, as if they were feeling the weight of the newfound link between them, far from the first, and far, so far from the last. Felicity felt Oliver's heart beneath the palm of her hand, and she closed her eyes just before he kissed her, the both of them enveloped and safe with each other in the dark.

* * *

Strangely, all Oliver could think of was what they'd done in the weapons room. They closed their bedroom door together, leaning on it with their shared weights to push it closed. Oliver still couldn't think why, not when Felicity stood on her toes and opened her lips to his kisses, not when her hands fumbled with the buttons on his shirt and she began to inch it down his shoulders.

"Felicity," Oliver breathed, and stopped her.

Felicity made a low noise of surprise and stumbled back. Oliver held her steady with his hands on her arms, because he'd realized something.

In the weapons room, they'd fought about souls, choices, and above all — trust. Oliver had let Felicity believe that he didn't trust her, that he doubted her to make the smart choice when it came to her father, because her mind was clouded by revenge and fear. It was what made them take each other, furious and at odds, in an attempt to find some kind of resolution that wasn't there.

Even though they weren't fighting anymore, Oliver wanted to make sure that Felicity knew it.

"I told you about my fears because I don't ever want to lie to you again. But I also told you both of them — all of them — because I want you to know that I trust you."

Felicity nodded, and he could see that she didn't quite understand what the difference was. "I know you do, Oliver," she said, cautiously.

Oliver shook his head, because he wasn't done. "Before, when I was angry with you — I thought I couldn't trust you to make a decision about your father." His hands slid low to the curve of her hips, and Felicity arched, bringing herself up to press her lips to his throat. "I was wrong. Because I went into the pit expecting to be afraid that you'd lose your soul fighting Darhk. But I didn't see that — I only saw the possibility of losing you."

Oliver bent his head and looked Felicity in the eye. "I trust you," he said again. "I trust you with any decision you make about your father — with us — with everything. As long as we're together, that's all that matters to me."

In lieu of an answer, Felicity took a step back. They slipped free of each other, but their gazes stayed locked, tighter than anything could ever separate without them wanting it to. Felicity was still watching Oliver when she reached for the hem of her shirt and pulled it up over her head. Slowly, carefully, she undid her button and zipper, hooking her thumbs in both underwear and jeans to pull them down over her long, white legs.

The tension in their shared gaze grew electric when Felicity slipped the straps of her undone bra past her shoulders, elbows, wrists —

Naked. Felicity stood undressed in the middle of the room, completely bared for him to see. Oliver felt his breath catch at the sight of her, ivory-pale and honey-gold by the light of the candles, her hair loose and lovely around her shoulders, every curve and contour looking like it was meant to be kissed, to be worshipped.

He'd seen her a thousand times before, but she could still make him feel like it was the first time, like he hadn't explored every inch of her, like they hadn't already learned each other completely. Like there was always more, like neither of them could ever be well and truly _done_.

Felicity smiled and opened her arms. "Come here," she said, and Oliver obediently — willingly — did as he was told.

It was like a mirrored dance of what they'd done in the weapons room, gentle instead of frantic, tender rather than rough. They were trying to mend what they'd broken, even though the wrong was already shared and forgiven between them.

Oliver lowered himself onto the bed, trusting Felicity to take the lead. She straddled him with a smile, sliding her hands into his unbuttoned shirt, across his flanks and around his flat, muscled belly. She undressed him slowly, taking the time to kiss each scar from throat to chest, even though she'd seen them countless times before.

They were naked in each other's arms, but all they did was touch each other, fingertips tracing old paths with fresh wonder, warm breaths fanning across bare skin in wordless prayers. All of it was a silent affirmation of what they needed to know, to feel again, after each experiencing almost-worlds where everything between them was gone, wiped clean as if it had never been.

 _I'm here_ , each touch seemed to whisper.

 _I'm here with you_ , each kiss whispered back.

Felicity lingered on the faded scar above his heart, and her expression grew thoughtful. Oliver looked down at it too, half-shielded by her small palm, the narrow white line marking the first time she'd lost him and — God willing — the only time she'd ever have to.

Oliver found himself staring at the spot on her chest where he'd imagined the same wound, the one that had killed her in his dream. It was unmarked, unblemished, but bent forward on an impulse and touched his lips to the place. This — in front of his eyes — was real. The ghost, the Felicity who lay dying in his arms, was only a fearsome reminder of what could have been, not what _was_.

Oliver lifted his head and they looked at each other without speaking. Something wordless seemed to have passed between them, a question Felicity answered by reaching for his hand.

Her breath sharpened when she guided it to her heart, laying his palm between her breasts where the beat of her heart thudded strong against his hand and his wedding ring made from arrowheads. Oliver — even without words — understood, and did the same for her, showing her where his heart beat a surprising staccato, hammering against his collarbone. Felicity's was no better, the frantic beat of a small bird's wings, but they both smiled, because they were alive and together.

It was all that mattered.

Oliver's hands glided low to the small of her back, braced to hold her steady, but Felicity was the one who brought them together with a gentle press of her hips. Whatever sounds they made were lost to the other's skin, but for three indistinguishable heartbeats, neither of them moved. Their positioning was far from new, but reconciling the way they were doing now…it was startlingly intimate, at least to Oliver.

He must have looked surprised, because Felicity laughed and kissed him softly on the mouth. "I trust you too," she whispered. "I love you and I trust you."

Everything seemed to have taken on a fluid quality to Oliver. It was candlelight and shadow and moments of dizzying clarity and Felicity — who was something else entirely. Felicity sighing in his ear as he moved inside her, Felicity arching beneath him with her hair spilling across the sheets, as open and fragrant and soft as the petals of a lily, Felicity smiling between hungry kisses and tender, laughing whispers.

Then, near the end:

"Yes —" Her legs wrapped tight around him, her hand clasped at the back of his neck. "Oliver — yes — yes — _yes_."

* * *

"No," Felicity said, covering her mouth. "I did _not_ have short hair."

Oliver made a sleepy noise of assent. They were in bed, enjoying the drowsy aftermath of their lovemaking. He was dozing on his stomach, his naked back half-covered by the sheets while she lay on her side, propped up on her favorite extra-squashy pillows.

"You did," he said, and held his fingers to just below her chin. "That short."

Felicity grasped handfuls of her hair like she could hear the phantom scissors. "How did _that_ look?" she asked.

In answer, Oliver threw an arm around her waist and dragged her, laughing and squirming, into his arms. "Horrible," he said, planting scratchy kisses all over her neck and cheeks. "Not good at all."

Felicity gave him a playful slap on the arm. "You're the worst," she told him, decisively. "The absolute worst."

Oliver made a sound of amusement against her neck. "That's not what you said just now."

"That," she said primly, "was a different context."

Oliver rolled back onto his stomach with a smile. "I'm sure it was."

Felicity folded her arms under her chest and stared at the silk canopy above their heads. It was the first time in days that she felt warm all the way through, from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. It was a drowsy feeling of contentment, like waking up on a Saturday morning with hours to kill, or falling asleep after sex. Normalcy, which was something Felicity hadn't figured out the logistics to quite yet.

Felicity turned to look at Oliver across the pillow. "Thank you," she said, quietly.

"For what?"

Felicity shifted closer, drawing her fingertips along the natural interlay of muscle and bone in his back. "Because you hate the pit more than I do, and you still went in with me. _Jumped_ , I believe, is the operative word."

The corner of his mouth quirked in a small smile. "I don't think I could have changed your mind — you're as stubborn as I am."

Felicity laughed, because it was very, very true. She let her eyes drift shut, giving herself up to the dreamy warmth of their bed.

There were still things that needed to be done, to-do lists that verged on impossible and crazy, but the first item on the agenda was rest. They had long days ahead of them — training crime-fighting tech geniuses with little to no hand-to-hand experience, tracking down and repurposing an artificially intelligent informations system, to start. Reclaiming Oracle for herself was going to be an uphill climb, no question about it. Then there was the war, the actual showdown.

But Felicity wanted to keep thoughts of war and work out of their room, if only for a few more hours.

"You know," she said, with her eyes closed, "I used to thank all my gods — and you know I have about fifty of them, mostly Netflix-related — that we were both so inhumanly stubborn. Otherwise there's no way we would have stayed together."

Oliver made a noise under his breath. "Why is that?"

"Different interests," Felicity said, counting off her fingers. "I'm an IT girl and you're an arrow-shooting vigilante. We — and by that I mean mostly you — have a history of homicidal ex-girlfriends, ex-mentors and ex-parents — okay, that last one's my bad. Then there was the League of Assassins, and _death_ …I mean, most people would have called it quits after they got supernaturally resurrected the first time."

Oliver was watching her now. "So you're saying the reason we've stayed together is because we're both stubborn."

" _Inhumanly_ stubborn," Felicity corrected. "But yes, that's my theory."

"You left something out."

"Did not."

"You did." Oliver took her into his arms, smoothing the tumbled mess of her hair back from her cheeks. "The fact that I love you."

Felicity teasingly made a face. "How much?"

Oliver kissed her forehead, nose, and cheeks, soft wandering kisses that made her smile. "Enough to bring me back from the dead," he whispered.

Felicity shut her eyes and relaxed into his touch. As much as she never wanted a repeat of the Lazarus pit episode, a part of her couldn't help but feel the slightest bit proud because Oliver could say — one-hundred-percent without lying — that he'd loved her enough to be resurrected by it. For something as invisible and as misunderstood as love, having that between two very different people, who under different circumstances never would have met…was a little extraordinary.

Then again, Oliver Queen was born to be extraordinary.

" _Oracle_ ," Oliver said, softly, as if he was trying out the name for the first time. "Are you sure?"

Felicity thought about it, her head resting on Oliver's chest. "The Vigilante, the Hood, the Arrow," she said, tracing the spokes of the Bratva tattoo. "There's a lot of power in a name."

Oliver twisted a curl behind her ear. "Sometimes a name only has as much power as you give it. Sometimes it's other people who give it power for you."

"Sometimes you can take the power back," Felicity agreed. "By reclaiming it. Oracle can mean something different. Something…more."

"Something else," he said.

They smiled at each other, and Felicity lifted her head to kiss Oliver. "You know," she murmured, "if I'm going to be Oracle — maybe you should think about a name change, _Arrow_."

"Maybe," Oliver said, stroking her cheek. "Maybe you should choose the name for me."

Felicity _hmm_ -ed under her breath as her kiss shifted into a more determined exploration of her fiancé.

" _Felicity_ ," Oliver laughed.

She shushed him gently. "It's a work in progress."

* * *

Someone was hammering on the door.

Felicity raised her head off the pillow. "What the —?" she mumbled, in response to the untimely sleep disruption and the not-so-fun way her vision swam.

Oliver had slept curled around her, his palm — loose and relaxed from sleep — resting on her stomach, his head in the curve of her shoulder. She felt him stir behind her and begin to extricate himself from their entangled limbs. It was almost a morning ritual at this point, the confusing business of figuring out which fingers and arms were actually his. "I've got it," he said, pressing briefly on her waist with one hand and reaching for his clothes with the other. "Go back to sleep."

Felicity shook her head and reached clumsily for the robe hanging off the headboard. The cloudless morning light slipped past the window shutters and caught the metallic wires woven into the rug, glimmers of gold in warm red, as intricate as the scales on a moving fish. "I think we're late," she said, her voice scratchy from being woken up.

The knocking began again and Felicity groaned, scrubbing a hand across her face. "Correction, we're _very_ late."

Oliver paused with a t-shirt in his hands. "You're right," he said, with unconcealed surprise. "That never happens."

"I'm shocked too." Felicity shook her hair out over her shoulders and knotted the ties at the front of her robe, mildly grumpy at the sight of him wearing pants again. "Something help you sleep?"

Oliver crossed over to her side of the bed and gathered her face in his warm hands for a kiss. " _Someone_ ," he corrected.

"Mm." Felicity smiled for the first time that morning. "That's one way to—"

A gigantic thud on the wood made her jump. "Ollie!" Thea shouted. "Do you _want_ Nyssa to send someone to break down the door?"

Felicity dropped her head in official mourning for a kiboshed moment. With an air of good-natured exasperation, Oliver kissed the tip of her nose in consolation and turned to the door. "It's open, Speedy."

"Oh." It opened just a crack and stopped there. "Do you both have clothes on?"

Felicity laughed before she could stop herself. "Yes! Now get in here!"

Thea nudged the door open with her foot, peeking through the fingers of one hand and bearing a covered clay pot with the other. "I know Roy usually does the third-wheeling, but he was worried about what you'd do to him if he interrupted your — um — 'special couple time' again, and I didn't trust him with the soup."

Felicity's stomach gave a queasy heave, which was uncharacteristic of her, since most mornings started with her being hungry enough to debate the merits of — how did Thea put it — 'special couple time' versus breakfast. But pit-induced nausea had an unfortunate effect of rendering food a risky prospect.

"You made soup?" Oliver looked dubious at the thought of his sister cooking. Felicity quietly concurred, since the closest she'd ever seen Thea to food prep was picking up the takeout menu and deliberating what to order.

Thea narrowed her eyes at his obvious lack of faith in her culinary skills. "Thanks, brother dearest — I'll remember that the next time you have a cold," she said, kicking the door closed behind her. "Nyssa heard Felicity wasn't feeling well, so she asked the kitchen to make…" She glanced down at the pot lid, evidently drawing a blank. "…Didn't catch the name."

Knowing Nyssa's stance on using pincered insects and scaly reptiles for health remedies, Felicity gingerly accepted the pot and put it carefully in her lap, watched by both Queen siblings, who wore surprisingly identical expressions of wariness.

The smooth brown clay was pleasantly warm from the soup, and she lifted the lid — expecting scorpion pincers and fanged snake skulls — to find something that looked like clear broth, with a few red berries floating around beside some black mushrooms.

"It smells nice," she said, breathing in the steam that rose off the surface. "Chicken?"

Thea handed her a spoon. "No idea. I was expecting eyeballs. I also have instructions to not leave until it's all gone."

"Just when I thought Nyssa was acting out of character." Felicity smiled at Oliver and blew on a spoonful of soup. "Thanking her should be the perfect segue into sorry-I-took-a-swing-at-you, right?"

Oliver may have rolled his eyes a little bit. "Speedy, did Nyssa —"

"—yeah, she's definitely expecting you." Thea climbed onto the bed and snuggled up to Felicity, resting her chin on her shoulder. "Ta-ta."

Oliver kissed Felicity quickly on the forehead. "Be safe," he said, and turned to his sister. "Be good."

"Watch out for sharp objects," Felicity called after him, while Thea waggled her fingers.

The door closed and Thea poked Felicity in the ribs. "So what's going on with you?" she asked, sitting cross-legged with a pillow squashed beneath her elbows like it was sleepover night. "You were doing fine before we got here, but now you're getting dizzy spells and —" she grabbed Felicity's foot, making her yelp in surprise "—you're ice-cold. What's going on? Is my brother tiring you out?"

Felicity choked on her mouthful of soup, and Thea helpfully thumped her on the back until she could feel her esophagus again. "Just…run-of-the-mill mysticism and recklessness," she said, and held out her spoon. "This stuff is good. Say _ah_."

Thea sipped without complaint. "Not bad," she said appreciatively. "So Nyssa knows how to handle basically _any_ weapon ever invented, doesn't take crap from anyone, has hair like a Disney princess, _and_ she can cook?"

"Mm." Felicity nodded enthusiastically. "Makes you question your personal preferences, right?"

" _Yes_ ," Thea said. "And you got to kiss her? Lucky."

Felicity fed her more soup. Having a crush on Nyssa (understandable) was a vast and mildly amusing improvement from Thea being convinced that she was _a crazy psycho bitch_ (though there were arguments to be made on that front). "Sometimes I wonder if we share too much," she said, without much conviction. "I just get so excited that my sister-in-law's as weird as I am."

"Pin in that for later," Thea said. "So is it stomach flu? Or a blood pressure thing? Did you talk to Dr. Snow about it?"

Felicity nibbled at one of the berries; it was as sweet as dates. "I threw up a few days ago, but that was because I overdid it on the wine. Most of the time I'm just cold. Dizzy in the morning. The soup's helping, though. Thank you for bringing it up."

Thea smiled, but she still looked worried. "You're the brains of the operation — we can't have you getting sick on us now. Who's going to stop Cisco from blowing us up?"

"I'm not," Felicity said, firmly. "Promise."

"Good," Thea flopped down onto the mattress, hugging the pillow to her chest while Felicity drank her soup. "Because for a second there, it sounded like you were…never mind. I'm just being crazy."

Felicity poked the spoon in her direction. " _Ah_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Garghhh all the Olicity S4 spoilers are making me so happy :)))))))  
> Also, holy hell they cast Dugan from the Capt movies as Damien Darhk??? AND JR BOURNE?????? BEST. CASTING. DECISION. EVER. I don't care who JR Bourne is playing, he's going to ROCKKKKK. (But please don't leave Teen Wolf. CW you have taken enough actors from MTV. STAHP.)


	60. Followed

Oliver walked into the sparring courtyard with the impression that it had become some kind of testing ground, based on the line of target boards and crude stone blocks running horizontally across the space. Some were broken in half, others were covered with shattered glass and warped pieces of metal.

Diggle was leaning against one of the tables, in conversation with Nyssa al Ghul. The latter detected his approach before his best friend, but made no comment, nor any attempt to move away.

"What's going on?" Oliver asked warily, noticing that the table was covered with a miscellaneous jumble of arrows, everyday objects, and what looked like neck collars.

"Cisco had some ideas for tech improvements," Diggle explained, gesturing towards the center of the courtyard. "Roy and your sister have been firing trick arrows all morning, since you were —" he shot a speculative glance at Oliver "—busy."

Nyssa gave a sound of amusement, low in her throat. "Clever little one, isn't he?" she said, watching Cisco. "He even thought of a contraption for Ta-er al-Sahfer."

"Sara?"

Sure enough, Cisco turned up to rummage through the assembled gear on the table, with Sara following close behind. "Big day," he said, cheerfully. "Refocusing and directionalizing sonic resonance towards matching the natural frequency of everyday objects."

There was a silence.

"Cisco thinks I can control the pitch of my voice depending on what I'm screaming at," Sara translated, seeing their faces. "I asked."

Cisco was still picking through collars, each marked with different colors. "Everything has a natural frequency — concrete, glass, you name it. Theoretically — or, if you watch Youtube videos with singers and wineglasses — if Sara changes the pitch of her voice to match the natural frequency of the object…" He made a hand gesture that looked vaguely destructive.

"And how do you know this?" Oliver asked.

Cisco shrugged. "Science. Plus we had a meta in Central City who used sonic vibrations to try and bring down a building. We actually tracked him down using seismic activity — which means that Sara could theoretically cause earthquakes if she screamed loud enough. I mean, that would be terrible, but also pretty awes—"

"—Cisco," said Oliver.

"Sorry." Cisco held up the collars. "These'll help Sara direct the sound waves coming out of her mouth. Right now, it's like holding a firehose when it's turned on full blast. Translation: _messy_. Awesome, but messy. So I took a leaf out of the Pied Pier's book. He used gloves to direct the vibrations, but I thought the choker might keep with the whole _Canary Cry_ aesthetic."

"You _named_ my scream?" Sara said.

Cisco shuffled his feet. "I mean — it was — I assign…nicknames — Canary was —"

Sara put a hand on Cisco's arm, and he looked close to passing out. "I like it," she said, smiling over Cisco's shoulder at Nyssa. "It's…"

"Bold," Nyssa said, and understanding passed between them, as tangible as electricity.

Nyssa continued to watch Sara after she walked away with Cisco to try out the gear. Knowing Cisco's record with experimental technology, Oliver was a little skeptical as he watched Sara fasten the choker around her throat, standing in the middle of the courtyard.

"How many have they —?"

"Tried?" Diggle looked up, mentally counting. "The first one shorted out when she started to scream, the second one threw Sara off her feet, and the third…"

"Did something rather peculiar to a swarm of bees," Nyssa reminded him. "The boy was most elated by that development."

"Ah." Diggle held up his fingers. "So that makes four."

Oliver decided he didn't want to know what happened to the bees. But he did want to apologize, no matter how justified he'd felt in acting the way he did — at the time. Diggle must have seen it in his expression, because he reached for a handful of arrows. "I'm interested to see how these turn out," he said, shooting Oliver a look of encouragement. "Try not to start a sword fight."

Nyssa raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not armed," Oliver said, holding up his empty hands.

As soon as Diggle walked away, a silence descended. Oliver had never been good at apologies, much less to someone like Nyssa, who seemed profoundly disinterested in receiving them.

"I overreacted. I shouldn't have come after you in front of everyone," Oliver said, choosing his words carefully. "I'm sorry for that."

"Truthfully," Nyssa said, "I expected you to act the way you did. Which is to say — recklessly, and like an impulsive idiot. You do recall that in my father's day, challenging him was a feat punishable by death? You're rather fortunate that Ta-er al-Sahfer has instilled a compassionate sense of duty in me, or I would have heeded calls to slit your throat while you slept."

Oliver smiled, because he knew from Nyssa's tone and the quirk to her mouth that she was teasing him. "You wouldn't have slit my throat," he said, playing along. "You would have put a sword in my hand and challenged me to a duel to the death."

Nyssa's black eyes glittered. "A duel implies that both sides have an even chance at victory," she said, haughtily. "You are a strong fighter when acting in defense of your beloved, and your performance indicates that you have not entirely forgotten your time here, but you cannot always rely on a loved one under threat to aid you in battle. If you fought me now, I would have you on the ground in under two minutes."

"I didn't come here to debate what we already know," Oliver said, evenly. "I came to apologize for the way I acted. And to thank you for taking care of Felicity…in your own way."

Nyssa got his meaning. "I'd heard Sa'ida was feeling the unwelcome side effects of the pit. The tonic's medicinal properties are undisputed by our healers — she will become as robust as an ox if she continues to drink it."

Oliver shook his head in exasperation. "You care about Felicity because she reminds you of Sara, but you can push her into the pit and just…stand there. I don't understand it."

Nyssa inclined her head. "We must have a difference of opinion there, Oliver Queen. The strongest metal is tempered by fire, and your Felicity was born with celestial steel in her veins. You perceive my actions as callousness, I perceive that I acted out of faith. Facing one's father in battle — despite how fundamental one's differences are, or how deep-seated the hatred — will be no mean feat. If she could not face his specter inside an illusion, she would have had no hope in facing him at the crucial moment."

"You think she should kill him," Oliver said, keeping his expression guarded. "Her father."

Nyssa didn't say anything for a long moment. "While I am grateful — and forever shall be — for the service you rendered on my behalf," she said, "I should have been the one to kill my father. It would have freed me, to know that I was the one to claim his life for the sins he committed."

They looked at each other then, Oliver and Nyssa, linked by the old ghost of Ra's al Ghul. It was different — Ra's and Damien Darhk. Ra's needed to die, because he'd been at the head of a twisted dynasty. But Darhk…Darhk was only the beginning of something they were nowhere close to understanding, something darker and more dangerous.

"The plan's changed," Oliver said, because he didn't see the point in misleading Nyssa to believe otherwise. "Darhk has information we need."

Nyssa's expression was cautiously blank. "What of?"

"Others like him. Who he answers to. People like Sara — people they've experimented on and changed. People we need to stop."

Nyssa exhaled, loud with irritation. "Once again, you take on your city's burdens as if they were your own. I am hardly the only one calling for that man's blood. You speak of justice for all, yet you conveniently ignore the most expedient solution to human filth like —"

"Nyssa —"

Her eyes flashed. "What of your son?" she asked. "Will he not be drawn into the war if Darhk yet breathes?"

Oliver fell silent, but his mind went through the possibilities. Diggle wouldn't. Felicity knew which secrets weren't hers to tell. His sister —

"Damien Darhk is not the only schemer who can trace your footsteps, Oliver Queen. My father was aware of the child long before you defied him. A possible successor — should the union between our bloodlines prove to be unfruitful."

Nyssa tossed her hair, contemptuous at the thought of Ra's. "A father like mine did not comprehend that the child could have been used as incentive for you to comply. No, parental affection was not something my father prided himself in. He assumed you would be distant to the boy, and feel nothing for him. Clearly — that is not the case."

"Connor's never met me," Oliver said. "And I intend to keep it that way — for now. Killing Darhk won't stop HIVE from going after Connor. They know what he knows."

"I don't disagree," Nyssa said. "But a show of force might make your enemies rethink a threat to your family."

Oliver shook his head. "It's not what I want to teach him."

Nyssa muttered something rude in Arabic. "Once again, we have a difference in opinion."

"Don't we always?" Oliver said, matter-of-factly.

Her glare softened. "Darhk must face the repercussions of what he has done."

"Your father hunted Sara for betraying the League," Oliver reminded her. "If Darhk tells us what he knows — what do you think an organization like HIVE will do to him?"

Nyssa lifted her chin and studied Oliver, as if she was seeing him for the first time. "I should not have used your son as a weapon," she said, grudgingly. "You seem to care for the boy. And I take it — given your unfortunate lack of guile — that Sa'ida knows?"

"She does."

"A word of advice, Oliver."

He looked up, because Nyssa sounded almost…gentle.

"Your son will grow up in a dangerous world," she said. "Despite your intent not to involve him in the life you lead, the blood on your hands will make him a beacon for your enemies. He will need to fight — or remain a helpless child forever."

It was a bleak truth, one Oliver wasn't surprised to hear at all, especially not from a realist like Nyssa. "What are you offering?" he asked.

"A place," she said. "To train alongside the greatest masters in the world, unparalleled in their areas of skill — if your son desires it. I will personally oversee his training with Ta-er al-Sahfer, and ensure that he will be a formidable presence in his own right."

Oliver knew the gravity of what Nyssa was offering. Even if the League had changed under her, it was still a legend spoken of in whispers, a place closed perpetually to outsiders. For Nyssa to accept his son without having met him — it was one of the sincerest gestures of friendship on her part.

"Thank you for offering," he said. "But it's his choice."

"It is," she agreed. "But be sure you understand what that choice is. If you think he has a choice between danger and normalcy — you are mistaken. By very virtue of his relation to you, he will never be as safe as any other child. The choice he can make — is to be hunted, or to face his enemies with the skills to defend himself, to accept his destiny as someone meant for truly extraordinary things."

Oliver accepted her advice, because if anyone understood choices and family ties, it was Nyssa al Ghul, born to be the Demon's Heir.

"I'll think about it," he said. "Thank you, Nyssa."

They turned back to watch their friends. Nyssa watched as Sara took her place in the middle of the courtyard, braced to scream. "The future is a bright thing," she murmured. "But so fragile, is it not?"

* * *

Oliver parried Diggle's jab with the side of his arm and rolled, catching him in a chokehold until Diggle conceded. "Your technique's a little rusty," he commented, as they both got to their feet again.

Diggle looked like he wanted to give Oliver a long-overdue sanity check. "Don't try and change the subject, Oliver," he said, his chest heaving. "I told you _not_ to let Felicity fall, and your response to that was —"

"—to jump in with her," Oliver said, because there was no other way of putting it. "John, you know Felicity as well as I do and once she's made up her mind —"

"—it's get on board or get run over," Diggle muttered, reaching for his towel. "Yeah, I wonder why that sounds familiar. But the _pit_ , Oliver, goddammit. Ra's nearly drove you insane with that thing, how could you have known —"

"—I didn't." Oliver looked Diggle in the eye. "But I couldn't let her go by herself, not again."

Diggle glared at him reproachfully for a moment longer, then held out his water like an olive branch. "You know," he said, watching Oliver drink, "sometimes I really worry about the two of you."

Oliver tried hard not to smile, not when Diggle was that irritated with him. "Don't be," he reassured him. "Aren't you always saying that Felicity has enough sense for the both of us?"

Diggle gave him a warning look for the badly-timed humor, but turned away to glance up at the sky. "Speaking of worry," he said. "Shouldn't Supersuit be here by now?"

Oliver raised an eyebrow. "I thought Speedy was the only one who called him that."

"Believe me, Oliver, if he wasn't Supersuit, I'd be calling him something a lot worse right now," Diggle said, darkly.

"Why?" he asked, taking another swig of water.

Diggle narrowed his eyes. "Please tell me I'm not the only one who sees the way he looks at Felicity."

Oliver lowered the bottle. "Oh," he said. "That."

"Yeah," Diggle answered. "That. Hell, even Barry can sees it, and most of the time he's talking about phenomenon-this and science-that even though everyone looks like he's speaking Pig Latin."

"What do you want me to say?" Oliver lifted his shoulders. "I asked Felicity once, and she doesn't see it. When it comes to this, hers is the only opinion I _should_ care about."

"Because Felicity realized you were in love with her right off the bat," Diggle said, sarcastically.

Oliver had always known it was hard to argue with Diggle, but he was starting to realize that it was because Diggle remembered _everything._ "Look, John, I appreciate the concern, but Ray — whatever his feelings towards Felicity — has as much a right to defend his city as we do. He's not doing anything we haven't done ourselves."

"I'm not saying he has," Diggle said. "I'm _saying_ that you should kick his ass when he eventually shows up. For practice."

* * *

Felicity hated needles in her arm. She hated needles, period. Maybe it was one of the reasons she'd delayed talking to Caitlin — because consulting a biomedical scientist who carried a vacutainer around in her purse would inevitably end in a blood collection exercise.

It felt like cosmic punishment. A full morning of combing through online footprints and wiped ARGUS systems hadn't turned up any remnants of the virus-savaged ORACLE. Either the Brother Eye virus had done its work too well, or Darhk had managed to squirrel it away, inoperable or not.

_Great._

"Isn't Oliver waiting for you downstairs?" Felicity said, directing her statement across the lab to where Cisco and Ray were tinkering with the suit, watched apprehensively by Barry, in case anything threatened to explode again.

"…molecular resonance," Ray mumbled.

" _Five minutes_ ," Barry translated.

"He does know that it's _Oliver_ , right?" Felicity said, remembering (vividly) the last time Barry had been late to a training session with Oliver (spoiler alert: he'd ended up with two arrows in his back).

"Shh," Barry said. "Why do you think I'm tagging along?"

"And…done," said Caitlin, removing the piece of cotton from the puncture site.

"Give me the bad news, doc," Felicity said jokingly, spinning one round in her chair. "Is it vertigo?"

Caitlin stripped off her rubber gloves and reached for the vial of blood she'd drawn out of Felicity's arm. "You do know that I can't just _look_ at a blood sample and tell what's wrong with you, right?" she said. "The bad news is I can't do a more comprehensive blood work until we're back at STAR Labs, but the good news is — it sounds like some kind of hypoglycemic episode. You haven't been eating much, have you?"

Felicity shook her head. "Are you going to make me eat an apple a day?"

Caitlin laughed. "No, but I _will_ tell you to eat three square meals, and to drink plenty of water. Maybe refrain from jumping into mystical geological formations. My sagely doctor advice — delivered."

"And I will pay you the five cents later," Felicity rolled her chair back towards her computer. "So have you talked to Ronnie? Is he doing okay?"

"They're lying low in Pittsburg," she said, with a little sigh. "He misses the pizza back home."

"That's a good sign," Felicity remarked. "I mean, Oliver and I basically made him and Dr. Stein babysit a nine-year-old kid. If pizza's the only thing he's complaining about, we might all make it through alive."

"Oh, Ronnie loves Connor. He says he can sit through Dr. Stein talking about time travel, and he wants to learn all about camping and survival skills…for some reason. Anyway, they're on fishing lines now."

Sounded like Oliver's son. Felicity cleared her throat and went back to check her tracking programs, currently in the process of scrubbing terabytes of surveillance for signs of Darhk.

At least…she tried to.

"Hey, Cait?" Felicity said. "Is your computer freezing up a little?"

Caitlin tried the keys. "The screen's flickering." She looked up at Felicity. "Is that a glitch?"

"Don't…know," Felicity swung around. "Barry — check the computer over there. I'll just try and… _frack_."

Barry coughed. "Excuse me?"

Felicity tapped on the keyboard, half-listening. The system had frozen, which never happened to any computer she'd set up. _Ever_.

"That's not…possible," she said, distractedly keying in a series of jump-start commands to get the systems going again.

Still frozen. She was losing her touch, she had to be. Or she was just having a _really_ off tech day. Felicity stared at the screen, watched it flicker like an ancient television set with crappy signal. "It shouldn't be possible," she murmured, typing in commands.

The computers glitching had finally caught Cisco and Ray's attention. Cisco rolled towards his laptop. "I usually hit it a couple of times," he said, making a fist. "Maybe it's the dust — computers don't like that, right?"

Caitlin popped up from behind the table, where she'd been checking the wiring. "You do realize that computers aren't _living_ things, right Cisco?"

"Rude."

"Guys." Ray was standing in front of another screen across the room. "This one's doing it too."

Sure enough, the monitors — one by one — began to show the same thing. Flickering black and white static.

"Hold on." Barry cracked his knuckles and went to work. His hands blurred as he unplugged and replugged the computers at high speed.

No change. Still the same inexplicable static.

O- _kay_ ," said Cisco. "So this is mega-creepy. Should we run…or get some holy water? I think I saw some in the courtyard."

"Cisco, that was a bathroom," said Caitlin.

Felicity shook her head, not understanding. "My setup was perfect — encrypted, untraceable…I've done it a million times before."

"Holy water, then."

"Hold it on the holy water, Cisco." Ray bent his head, like he was listening. Like he'd heard something.

They all fell silent, nearly — quite nearly — holding their breaths.

"I think…" Caitlin's face twisted with confusion. "I think it's saying your name — Felicity, why are the computers saying your name?"

Cisco made a strangled noise. " _Hah_ , not cool, guys. _Not cool_. I've watched way too many horror movies for this to be cool."

Felicity didn't answer, because she was listening for it. The familiar voice, familiar only because of its lack of human distinctiveness. A computerized voice, programmed to be intelligent, but not human.

It shouldn't have been possible, and she didn't understand it, but she did it anyway. She took a step back from the computers, her hands raised in front of her like she was trying not to upset a delicate balance.

"Felicity Megan Smoak," she said, clearly and precisely.

"Great." Cisco's hands were on his head. "You just said your name to a demonically possessed computer."

Felicity motioned for him to be quiet, and tried again.

"ORACLE," she said. "Are you there?"

There was a brief burst of static, before everything seemed to snap into place. The screens became dark again. " _Felicity Megan Smoak_ ," intoned a smooth, computerized voice. " _Recognized — Oracle._ "

"It followed me here," she said, as the database — whole and unscathed by her virus — opened up before their eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooo.


	61. Sending a Message

For some reason, they were all gathered outside. Not exactly an ideal venue for a war council, but there wasn't really a manual on how to deal with AI systems tracking someone all the way to a remote corner of the world.

The general mood could be summed up in two words: _Freaked. Out._

Barry materialized with a blast that made Felicity's hair prickle with static. "Found Oliver and Dig — gave them a five-minute head start."

"Did you bring it?" Cisco asked.

Barry opened his empty hands in exasperation. "No, Cisco, there's no holy water here. It's a computer, not a ghost!"

"Yeah," Cisco said, as if they were being slow about reaching his point. "A computer. Even if it's not possessed — which, by the way, it _so_ is — water's gonna fry the circuits on that thing."

"Actually, it's an artificially intelligent system meant to identify and isolate threats from every byte of data known to man," Felicity corrected. "So throwing water on all our tech is definitively _not_ going to help. It'll just upload itself somewhere else."

"No one's frying anything with water — holy or non-holy," Lyla interrupted, ever the voice of reason. "ORACLE's an asset, no question about it. The question we _do_ have to ask —"

"—is whether you can control it," Caitlin said, and they all looked at each other. "Felicity…can you?"

There was no malice in her friend's tone, just pure concern. Because they — none of them — had ever seen anything like it before, much less had it at their fingertips. A little worry-slash-fear was justified.

Felicity bit her lip. "That depends on whether it's programmed to hold grudges, because the last time it saw me, I attacked it with a hostile computer virus, so…"

"ORACLE's an asset," Ray summarized. "One we know basically nothing about."

"Felicity?"

Oliver joined them in the corridor with Diggle, and Felicity felt the knot of tension in her stomach ease at the sight of him. He touched her arm, an instinctive response to whatever distress-vibes were coming off the top of her head. "What's going on?"

"ORACLE," she said. "It followed us — _me_ — here."

Diggle said a very bad word. "How do we know it's not broadcasting your location to Damien Darhk right now?" he asked, a perfectly valid concern.

"She — _it_ — I'm losing track, at this point — wouldn't do that," Felicity said, even though the blind faith in her statement made her sound like she was about twelve. "Damien can't give it commands because Waller never put him on the list."

"Which brings us back to square one," Ray said. "ORACLE's an asset, but we know almost _nothing_ about it."

"But it's not about what _we_ know about ORACLE," Felicity reminded them all. "It's what ORACLE knows, and I'm willing to bet that it can find Damien's surveillance ship a lot faster than we can."

There was a silence, in which no one made a move towards the door. Felicity threw up her hands in barely-concealed exasperation. "For once in our lives, the answers are right in front of us," she said. "Anyone else think it's weird that we're all hesitating like we have to stick our hand through a meat grinder to get them? I mean, all I have to do is walk up to it and ask nicely. What are we so afraid of?"

Oliver had been listening in silence, and when Felicity glanced at him, he gave a small nod. If there was going to be resistance — it wasn't going to be coming from him. At the very least, she could count on him to back her up in front of everyone, whatever worries he had in private. "It's your hand," he said, quietly.

"Exactly," Felicity said. "Which definitely makes it my choice. You'd already be in there if it was yours."

She looked them all in the eye. "So — shall we?"

* * *

Felicity didn't really have much experience, starting conversations with computers. But she braced herself, holding onto the edge of the table with both hands. She inhaled, deeply, and said: "Hello?"

A pause.

"ORACLE?" She was tempted to give the monitor a shake. "You there?"

"Hello," said ORACLE, and literally everyone jumped. "Felicity Smoak, Oracle."

"Right…that's — um — me." Felicity was a little thrown by the sight of her friends, all of whom looked highly apprehensive. "You don't have to call me that every time."

"I understand, Felicity Smoak. I will accept any command you give me," it said, almost pleasantly.

"That's…good," she continued, awkwardly. "So — how did you find me?"

"I assumed your use of the Brother Eye virus was intended to facilitate my transfer out of the ARGUS mainframe, so I uploaded myself to a secure location and kept track of your online presence from there."

Felicity shook her head. "But the network — setup — everything's encrypted, how did you —?"

"I accessed your computers in location 2552, otherwise known as the Foundry, Starling City. The data helped me recognize your habits. You have a distinctive coding technique, and you favor hacking into encrypted surveillance satellites, namely: Central Intelligence Agency, Wayne —"

" _Okay_ ," Felicity said, before ORACLE could rattle off the names of every satellite she'd "borrowed" at some point in time. "So you found me. Does my — does Damien Darhk know where we are?"

"I have not seen the need to inform him. Damien Darhk is a benefactor, but he does not have executive command over my functions. Individuals currently authorized as Oracle are Felicity Megan Smoak and Amanda Blake Waller."

Felicity breathed a sigh of relief. One problem taken care of, at least. She was still the only Oracle, what with the other one being very much deceased.

Cisco nudged Caitlin. "It's like Gideon's sister. Or…great-grandmother, technically."

"Cisco Ramon," ORACLE said, instantly. "Threat level, low."

" _Whoa_ ," he said.

"Self-injury more likely, given past record of reckless experimentation. Events of note: particle accelerator explosion, Central City, December 11, 2013. Possible exposure to unknown energies, continued surveillance recommended." The screen flickered, as if ORACLE was in the middle of processing. "I am unfamiliar with the name Gideon. Classified: unknown entity."

"Makes sense," Barry reasoned. "Gideon came with Thawne from the future. You wouldn't be able to predict a version of yourself in fifty years if —"

"—you were programmed to see yourself as the best and brightest," Felicity finished, and made a face. "That's disturbingly trippy."

"Not as trippy as _that_ ," Cisco said, pointing at the screen, now showing what looked like Barry's CCPD ID.

"Bartholomew Henry Allen. Threat level — high. Metahuman. Skills: enhanced speed and stamina, molecular density control, time travel, super healing factor. Events of note: particle accelerator explosion, Central City, December 11, 2013, and forty-two more incidents on file. Aliases: the Streak, Red Streak, Scarlet Speedster, Flash. Potential founding member of —"

"— that's…completely secret," Barry looked thunderstruck. "The only way you could have gotten that was through…"

"I accessed the encrypted file log in STAR Labs," ORACLE said, helpfully. "I know your daily required amount of calories and your inability to become intoxicated."

"So that's how it feels to get hacked," Felicity said aloud, not liking it very much. " _Huh_."

Barry turned to her. "Burn it with fire," he said, completely straight-faced.

"Wait, wait, so Barry's a high-level threat, but I'm classified as _low_?" Cisco looked deathly insulted. "Can I file an appeal?"

"Cisco," Oliver said. "Not the point."

"Oliver Jonas Queen —"

Felicity pinched the bridge of her nose. "Oh god," she muttered. Could ORACLE maybe _not_ with the endless bios every time someone opened their mouth?

"Threat level — high. Skills: archery, hand-to-hand, firearms and melee weapon combat, battle tactician, language proficiency in Russian, Chinese, Spanish, and Arabic. Known affiliations: Solntsevskaya Bratva, League of Assassins, ARGUS. Aliases: the Vigilante, the Hood, the Arrow. Potential founding member of vigilante league, alongside Bartholomew Henry Allen, and others. Recommended course of action: neutralization."

" _No_ ," Felicity said, before Oliver had even opened his mouth. "No. You do _not_ neutralize anything or anyone in this room, do you hear me?"

"It's not a dog, Felicity," Diggle said.

"John Andrew Diggle —"

"—and _enough_ with the bios!" Felicity snapped. "No neutralization-talk, no more bios and — _stop_ — making weird predictions."

"My predictions are based on processed data," ORACLE answered, seemingly unruffled by her outburst. "I was programmed to identify threats and recommend a course of action."

"Threats to HIVE," Oliver said.

"Correct. HIVE created me to identify and target any anomalies to their projected future, based on the data I am programmed to find and understand. HIVE is not the enemy."

Cisco held out his arm. "I just got chills."

"What can you tell us about HIVE?" Lyla asked, her voice carefully neutral. "We need to know its organizational structure and command hierarchy."

"Certainly. HIVE operates as a worldwide collective. It expands through the infiltration of existing organizations and covert recruitment strategies. Known infiltrations include ARGUS, FSB, Chinese State Security, and fourteen other intelligence agencies. HIVE exists under a council of seven, known under aliases for security purposes. Known council members: Damien Darhk, Vandal Savage, Adeline Kane —"

The names meant literally nothing to Felicity, except one. "So where is he?" she asked, with an impatient wave of her hand. "Where's Damien Darhk?"

"I am temporarily unable to locate him."

"Explain that sentence," Felicity said, fighting the urge to hit something.

"There is insufficient processing power on this machine. I am currently in shadow mode, and I require approximately twenty petabytes of processing power to operate at full capacity."

Felicity and Ray swore in unison, their choice of profanities drawing raised eyebrows from Diggle and Lyla — who had to have heard worse in the army.

"What's twenty petabytes?" Oliver asked.

"In perspective?" Felicity said, massaging her throbbing temples. "If we had twenty million filing cabinets, all filled with single-spaced documents, front and back, we'd have one petabyte. Twenty petabytes is what Google goes through every day — with server space that we don't have. There's no way we can run a search for Darhk here."

"What about Palmer Tech?" Oliver turned to Ray. "Can your computers handle ORACLE?"

Ray looked like he was doing some quick math. "Probably, if we kicked everyone out of the building and used every available byte of capacity we had."

"Good." Diggle folded his arms. "Do it."

Ray laughed nervously. "Sure, but there's the small, kinda insignificant fact that you — all three of you — are supposed to be wanted by the police for illegal vigilante activity. The CEO of Palmer Technologies showing up after supposedly being at home with mono and shutting down Starling City headquarters is bound to raise a few questions. Questions we can't answer without risking the three of you in handcuffs."

Felicity exchanged glances with Oliver and Diggle. "He's right," she said. "Palmer Tech would have been a good fallback — if my dad didn't know every single one of your names."

"And we can't show up on the radar without everyone with a badge coming after us for an arrest," Diggle added.

And on it went. Felicity stopped listening to the ideas going back and forth between the group and brought up the last few days' worth of crime reports around Starling City instead. They needed to know what they were facing, the layout of the board in a game that had started without them.

She scanned the lists of incidents and tried to think, but all she kept hearing was the throb of an encroaching headache in her ears.

It was too crowded. Too many people. Felicity shut her eyes as the ground lurched sickeningly beneath her feet.

"Whoa," she said, under her breath. She gripped the edge of the table, and would have stumbled if Oliver hadn't caught her elbow almost instantly, like he'd been watching her the whole time.

Everyone went quiet. Felicity gripped Oliver's sleeve, the back of her hand pressed to her mouth. By her charitable estimation, she was about three seconds from losing her lunch, and a stress-induced ralph was probably the last thing they needed right now.

Oliver's hands were on her shoulders in silent reassurance as he turned to the others. "The three of us need the room, please," he said.

Felicity didn't disagree. It was getting too crowded to troubleshoot a problem that had started with the three of them. Thankfully, Oliver's tone — as quiet as it was — didn't exactly leave room for a refusal, so she concentrated on evening out her breathing until her friends had filed out.

The door shut after Barry, leaving them alone.

"Are you all right?" Oliver asked her.

Felicity nodded, a hand on her stomach. "I was just catching up on some homework," she said, keeping her voice light. "Should've eased back into it."

He wasn't fooled. "How bad?" he asked.

Felicity shifted the monitors so they could see. The Royal Flush Gang, the Bratva, metahumans she _thought_ were exclusively confined to Central City, some gang called the Rogues, whatever that was…

For lack of a better word, Starling City was going to hell.

Oliver read the reports over her shoulder. "We've had it easy," he said, with something like guilt. "We were so focused on Darhk that we forgot about the city."

Diggle shook his head at some of the names. "Lyla has a saying about warlords. When one of them dies in Afghanistan, there's always a void left behind, and it draws the vultures in. I just never thought we were the warlords."

"We've barely been gone for a week," Felicity said. It sounded like an excuse, but a part of her was in disbelief at the way things could swing so far, and so quickly out of whack.

Oliver's hands were clenched into fists on the table surface. "Darhk must be giving Sandra orders to stir up trouble with the Bratva. With them involved, there's only so much the SCPD can do, and Laurel's on her own."

"These aren't your average criminals either," Diggle said, underscoring the gang names. "The Royal Flush Gang, these metas…we've never seen them in Starling before."

Felicity looked up at that, because she'd just realized why one of the names sounded so familiar. "Cold," she said. " _Cold_."

Oliver and Diggle each gave her blank looks.

"Barry was talking about him. Leonard Snart — Captain Cold — guy with the handheld cryoengine," she said, wishing Cisco had come up with a better code name. "The Rogues are Snart's little crime club. He's a thief, and he _never_ does anything without making sure it's worth his while. Ten to one there's something big drawing them to Starling."

"Like an organization trying to turn the tide against the Arrow," Diggle said. "Like HIVE's sending out a beacon for every criminal with a grudge against vigilantes, using the trouble to draw us back in."

"This is my fault," Oliver said, without malice. "I abandoned my city, and they're paying the price for something I started."

Felicity caught Diggle's eye. They were on either side of Oliver, an arrangement that was reassuring in spite of everything going on around them. It was familiar, the two voices of reason trying to hammer some sense into the headstrong self-sacrificing idiot. They'd faced terrible things and made hard choices together, the three of them as a team.

This time wouldn't be different; she'd make sure of it.

Oliver was staring forward. "There's a way out of this," he said, flatly.

"No," she said, in response to what she knew Oliver was about to say. "Don't even think about it."

"If I turn myself in to Captain Lance and clear the both of you in my confession, you can carry on without me. Get to Palmer Tech, find Darhk and stop him."

Felicity balled her hands into fists and spun around, partly because she was getting a resurgence of nausea, partly to stop herself from strangling Oliver herself.

"We've been over this, Oliver," Diggle said. "We find another way. Because after all we've been through, we're not just going to let you throw yourself under the nearest freight truck for us. Like it or not, it's not _your_ crusade anymore. It's ours too, and you're not taking the fall for the three of us."

"I'm asking you to," Oliver said, steadily. "Things have changed, John, and this is the fastest way forward. Darhk, and the city are the top priorities — I've survived worse than prison."

"How about me murdering you?" Felicity said, sarcastically. "Because I am _this_ close to inflicting grievous bodily harm on that thick skull of yours."

"There's no other way to get what we need," Oliver reasoned. "ORACLE can't search for Darhk here, and if it's a choice between you and me and stopping your father, I —"

Felicity grabbed his face and stopped his words with a kiss. She didn't care that it was in front of Diggle, she didn't care that she could be shy, she only wanted Oliver to remember that there was no choice to make.

Not with them.

Oliver made a sound that was almost pained, but she felt him kiss her back, hard enough to leave them both breathless when they pulled apart.

"No," she repeated, holding his face in her hands. "You said you trusted me — and I'm saying no. We will find a way out of this, _together_."

Oliver turned his head away, but Felicity kept her hands on his shoulders, making no move to step away. "I trust you. But you said it yourself," he reminded her. "There's no coming back from this. The city knows I'm the Arrow — we can't take that back."

"And the city knows that we've been helping you," said Diggle. "We can't take that back either."

Felicity was silent, because her mind was racing ahead. This all began with secrets. Necessary secrets — the lies they told the people they loved to keep them out of danger. A crusade in the shadows. A weapon locked in a box she hadn't known how to open until it was almost too late.

 _Nothing ever stays secret for long_ , Lyla said. Lyla Michaels — the spy who'd dealt with secrets all her life, simultaneously acknowledging the weakness of a secret and the power of the truth.

They would never be able to beat HIVE when it came to lies. It was a darkness that thrived on stolen secrets.

They would never be able to turn back the clock and take back what the city already knew.

Maybe…it was time they did things differently.

"What if we _don't_ take it back?" Felicity asked. "What it's time — past time — that we gave the truth its day?"

They were both watching her, Oliver and Diggle, the Arrow and the Soldier.

"What are you saying?" Oliver asked.

"This won't end with the three of us," Felicity said, slow and careful. "Even if we have to face the consequences of admitting what we've done, we know that there's going to be someone carrying on our crusade. We know the legacy we're leaving behind."

She raised her open hands and counted.

"Thea, Roy, Barry, Cisco, Caitlin, Ray, Sara, Laurel," Felicity said, listing the names of their friends and family — heroes both with masks and without. "They're not the only ones, and they'll carry on after us, as long as we stop Darhk's plan. As long as we protect the people who protect our city."

"But we don't deny that Oliver Queen is the Arrow," Diggle said. "We don't deny that John Diggle and Felicity Smoak have been helping him since the beginning."

Understanding dawned in Oliver's eyes. "Why waste our time fighting what everyone already knows," he said. "When we can make all of this mean something."

Felicity nodded. "We put ourselves out into the open, we take down Darhk, and send HIVE a message," she said. " _It doesn't end with us_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I make some apologies for ORACLE. Not much experience writing as an AI thingy. Anyways.  
> Saw pics of Oliver and Diggle wearing their suits for S4. HOT DAMN.


	62. War, Declared

"Control your wrist," Nyssa ordered, slapping Thea solidly on the arm with the flat of her blade.

Oliver heard his sister hiss between her teeth as she raised the sword over her head to strike. He didn't realize he'd lost focus until he belatedly sensed the downward swing of Nyssa's second blade and stumbled back with a stinging two-inch scratch across his forearm.

" _Concentrate_ ," Nyssa said, her voice a whip-crack. "Your sister will take care of herself."

Brother and sister moved in unison, but Nyssa blocked them both effortlessly with a flick of the twin swords in her hands, wielded with the deadly grace of a trained assassin. "Pitiful," she remarked, holding them both off.

Thea grunted in frustration, trying to force Nyssa back. " _God_ , that's getting annoying," she panted.

Oliver was inclined to agree. But he'd just had an idea. "Speedy!" he called, and tossed his sword from his right hand to his left. Nyssa's blade swished a hairsbreadth from his throat — an instinctive move born of surprise — and the momentum turned her away from Thea, leaving her side unguarded.

Thea moved, sliding across the stones and beneath the reach of Nyssa's swords. She twisted on the ground and dragged the point of her blade up with a screech of steel, stopping just shy of Nyssa's ribs.

For the longest moment, no one moved.

"Better," Thea said, with a grin.

Nyssa gripped both swords in her left hand and offered Thea her right. "Much," she agreed, pulling her smoothly off the ground. "Your sister has potential, Oliver Queen. The recklessness of her attacks make them difficult to anticipate."

Oliver tucked his sword behind his back and reached for his water. "That's one way to admit defeat," he said, dryly.

Nyssa laughed. "Careful, Oliver. Perhaps I was holding back for Sa'ida's sake," she said, sheathing the swords behind her back. "I should hate for her to be alone on her wedding day."

" _If_ they ever get around to it," Thea said, pinching the bottle from Oliver's hand. "Any updates on that front, brother dearest?"

Oliver made a non-committal noise. "Unless Diggle decided to get ordained recently — nothing."

"But the marriage license still works for another — what — fifty-ish days?" Thea said, blinking innocently. "So theoretically, if we stopped by a courthouse when we get back to Starling City…"

"It would be like walking straight into the Starling City police precinct," Oliver said, and ruffled her hair affectionately. "Leave it alone, Speedy."

Nyssa watched them with an expression of mild curiosity. "I've never had a sibling," she remarked. "But it all seems rather pleasant — having someone remind you constantly of your shortcomings."

Oliver decided not to pursue that conversation. "Does the League still have safehouses in Starling?"

"Does the sun still rise in the east?" Nyssa answered. "The League has no shortage of refuges for its members. We will be well-armed and well-protected to face Darhk, and thanks to your time in Nanda Parbat, that now includes being well-trained."

Thea puffed out her cheeks. "That's quite a burn you've got there, Ollie. You might want to borrow that cold gun from Barry's nemesis."

Nyssa smirked and started to walk away. "It seems I must prepare for our departure to Starling. We leave at nightfall — do try to be on time."

Thea watched Nyssa disappear into the shadow of a column. "You know, I'm starting to really like her," she said.

Oliver shook his head with a smile. "She…takes some getting used to."

Thea brushed the dust from a stone ledge and sat down, facing the burnt orange sky and the mountains streaked with the light of a fading day. Oliver joined her in silence, leaning back on his hands as he turned his head towards the landscape.

The wind cooled the sweat on their faces and arms, and Thea closed her eyes with a soft _hm_ , tilting her chin up to catch the light breeze.

"It's peaceful here," she said quietly, as if she couldn't believe it. "When you told me about what the League did to you, I was expecting — I don't know —"

"— torches and underground tunnels?" Oliver suggested. "It used to be."

"Now it's a castle, and a pretty decent choice for a destination wedding." Thea laughed at the expression on his face. "I'm kidding — mostly."

Oliver ducked his head, thinking about the way things changed. His sister had calluses on her hands now, ones that nearly matched his exactly — the marks of being an archer. She was leaner, harder, and she'd lost some of the roundness in her cheeks — the kind their mother used to compare with pictures of herself as a girl.

Thea had inherited Moira's haughty features, but they were softened by a kind of warmth their mother had never shown to strangers, and even though Oliver knew it was impossible, he chose to think that she'd gotten it from Robert.

Would his parents have approved of what he'd done? Bringing Thea into the fold had never been his plan from the beginning, but neither had been his choice to be a vigilante. Oliver knew the reasons for keeping his sister in the dark, reasons that still seemed persuasive at times, despite everything that told him otherwise.

Those reasons loomed over his head, as the inevitable clash with Darhk and HIVE drew closer. His sister was only twenty years old, and she was about to fight a war that shouldn't have involved her in the first place.

"A year ago," he said, "you were scared, alone, confused — and it was my fault. Slade took mom from us, and I took dad from you when you found out —"

"—that my biological father was the psycho who killed five hundred and three people, including my half-brother?" Thea said, matter-of-factly. "Even with your questionable decision-making, I don't see how that's your fault."

"I should have let you hate me," Oliver said. "If I had, you wouldn't be in the middle of nowhere hiding with your fugitive brother…facing a war I'm not sure we'll be able to win."

"Hey," Thea reached for his hand, her face serious. "I could never hate you, Ollie. You're my brother, and for the record, _I_ chose this. _I_ chose to pick up that bow, _I_ chose to be with the only family who matters to me, and every time we've left the Foundry to do some good in our city, that was my choice too. No matter what happens tomorrow, or the day after, I wouldn't change it for the world. All my life, people have been making my choices for me — it's time I chose to be Thea Queen, and this is who I am."

Oliver had been listening in silence, and he had to smile at the sheer force of will in his sister's voice. In that, she took after both Robert and Moira — and himself as well.

"You know, we never really talked about what you wanted to be called," he said. "I sort of assumed that you'd want to be called Speedy."

Thea punched him lightly in the arm. "Yeah, thanks for that, by the way. It's not embarrassing when your older brother keeps calling you by your childhood nickname even after you start fighting crime."

Oliver held Thea's hand in his, one of the many reminders that his sister wasn't a child anymore, and hadn't been, for a long time. Maybe longer than he'd admitted to himself. "Do you remember why I called you Speedy?" he asked.

Thea hesitated, and Oliver watched a smile spread across her face as she remembered. "You chased me," she said, on the verge of laughter at the memories. "I was always running — climbing up trees, sliding down staircases — but you were the only one who came after me, no matter what."

Oliver nodded. "Maybe — after everything — I still call you Speedy because I want to believe that you're still the little girl I used to chase after, that I'll be able to protect you, even though everything's different now." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, and let go, because he had to. "But I shouldn't. You've always made your own choices, and this — this part of your identity — is something you should decide for yourself."

"Ollie." Thea gripped his arm. "You're scaring me. What's going on?"

Oliver smiled at his sister, the only family he had in the world. "I love you, Thea, so much. Whatever happens to me, I want you to know that I'm proud of you."

Understanding dawned in Thea's eyes. "You're going to turn yourself in. That's why you're going back to Starling."

Oliver shook his head. "No, Speedy. It's a choice the three of us made. Felicity, John and I…we're not going to deny the accusations. We're not going on the run. We're going to make Darhk our last mission, and we're prepared to accept the consequences that come after — if they come," he added, to soften the blow.

"But prison…you might go to prison for the rest of your life," Thea whispered. "You — Felicity — Diggle — you don't deserve that. _None_ of you deserve that."

"I love you for thinking that," Oliver said. "But there's blood on our hands, especially mine. I killed people as the Hood, and if the city wants to punish me for what I did, they have every right to."

"Ollie, I'm not going to let you do this. It's not fair, it's not justice, and you've always done what's _right —_ " Thea's voice cracked, whether from anger or panic, he didn't know.

Oliver hushed her, an arm around her shoulders. He held his sister, trying not to think about how it might be the last time, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "We don't know what's going to happen," he said, quietly. "But I know that I can survive it, if we've protected what matters — not just our families, but a legacy that means families all over Starling City will never have to be afraid of losing the people they love because of something, or someone they might become. Do you understand?"

Thea sniffed, and dug her elbow into Oliver's middle. "You know, it sucks when you're being all noble and self-sacrificing, because it means I can't hate you."

Oliver smiled, resting his chin at the top of her head. "I know."

"Promise me that you won't give up," she said, her arms tight around him. "Promise me that you'll try to find another way. I _know_ you think the city has the right to punish you for the mistakes you made, but you've made up for it by giving everything you have…even though you've never owed them a thing from the start."

Oliver felt his chest grow tight with sadness, at the prospect of being separated from his sister, at the thought of her being in danger, at the single, inescapable fact that he wished his mother and father were still with them.

"I miss them too," Thea murmured, and Oliver looked down in surprise.

"I think they'd be proud of us," she said. "A bow and arrow probably wasn't what they had in mind, but I think they'd settle for it, if they were here."

Oliver warmed at the memory of his parents, both real and the images of them, the ghosts he'd spoken to inside the Lazarus pit. "We're never without them, Speedy. Never."

The sun was as red as a dying star, but it washed over the stone around them in shades of soft purple and deepening blue. Whatever misgivings he'd had on the way to Nanda Parbat, Oliver was glad his sister had seen it for herself — rebuilt and changed as it was, a symbol of forging a new path other than what they'd been taught all their lives.

It was hope, this place that had once meant despair and loathing to him, and Oliver was sad to leave it.

Thea blew her breath out in a sigh. "The Red Arrow," she said. "I was thinking about that one."

Oliver considered the name. "I like it," he said, thoughtfully. "Red Arrow and Arsenal. It's a strong team."

Thea squeezed him around the middle in silent protest. "And the Arrow," she reminded him. "You're not gone yet."

Oliver made a face to tease her. "Doesn't have the same ring to it."

"So choose," Thea said. "You told me to choose who I wanted to be, so choose something that reminds you of who you've become, how you've changed — how your crusade has changed. You're not just a vigilante, you're not just a hood, or an arrow…you're a soldier fighting to protect a future. Choose something that reminds you of that."

A year ago, Oliver would have been at a loss, caught in the confusion between soul and identity, between choices and destinies. But things had changed since then. He felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth at the thought of her — the person who'd changed his world, from the moment they'd met four years ago.

There was power in a name. A symbol of something different, something more.

 _Something else_.

* * *

Felicity glanced out the darkened window, even though they were hours away from Nanda Parbat and all she could see were the wings of the plane, slicing through the luminous clouds. Her breath misted the glass, and she chafed her stiff hands together to warm them.

Long flights always made her antsy, even one that was set up with computers and full working internet. It was daytime in Starling, and the city was still in a state deceptive quiet — before the chaos broke loose at nightfall.

"Hey."

Felicity looked over her shoulder. Oliver was standing in the doorway with two steaming mugs of coffee.

"I thought you were asleep," she admitted, clearing the debris from the spare chair so he could sit.

Oliver shook his head.

" _Right_ ," she said, sliding one of the mugs over to her with a smile. "You don't do that."

He smiled at that. "No, I don't."

They sipped in silence, Felicity sitting cross-legged in her oversized chair, Oliver watching the map of Starling City on the screens. Twice he'd tensed at an alert, twice she'd checked and reassured him that it was nothing the police couldn't handle.

"It's green — B&E on West Street," Felicity read. "The SCPD can handle it."

Oliver's expression indicated a lack of total agreement, but Felicity considered it progress that he wasn't poking himself with his own arrows in some kind of weird penance.

"I talked to Thea," he said, his eyes still on the computers. "I told her…what might happen."

Felicity reached for his hand, almost hot in contrast to her chilled fingers. Oliver traced slow circles in her palm with his thumb, the look on his face remote. "She said that I should choose a new name, because my crusade — our crusade — is different now. I started out trying to right my father's wrongs as the Hood, then it was trying to save my city as the Arrow, and now…"

Oliver seemed to be at a loss for words. Felicity raised his hand to her lips, pressing a kiss to the warm skin.

"And now…?" she prompted, gently.

Oliver looked up, his eyes sharp and bright with focus. "And now…it's not just about what _I_ can do to protect my city. It's about protecting a legacy — a legacy that means my city won't lack heroes to keep it safe. So even if today or tomorrow is my last day under that hood, it doesn't end with me."

" _Us_ ," Felicity reminded him. "It started with you, and me, and Diggle — but it doesn't end with us."

Oliver raised his hand to her cheek. "I'm glad," he said, and bent to kiss her.

Felicity closed her eyes and breathed in his scent, feeling her chest grow tight at the thought of losing him. Part of her regretted that they'd missed their time at City Hall, but part of her knew she was being silly and selfish. There was a ring on her finger that he'd given her, and more love and memories and hardship than most married couples ever had in a lifetime.

But once, just once, she wanted them to be selfish. She wanted them to forget — to be able to forget — the city and legacies and her father, she wanted to be Felicity Queen, even if it was just for one day, or one hour, or one minute.

But it wasn't them. Felicity touched her lips to Oliver's, one more time, before she let go of him with a sigh.

"So what did you choose?" she asked, blinking back the tears in her eyes. "For your new crusade?"

Oliver was looking down at their clasped hands, and for a moment she thought he hadn't heard her, even though their foreheads were still brushing.

"The Green Arrow," he said, and Felicity looked up so fast that they almost knocked heads.

" _Green Arrow_ ," she whispered, and watched him smile at the new name, as if he was hearing it for the first time, as if she was the first and only person he'd told.

"It felt right," Oliver said, and Felicity was reminded of the time he'd said the exact same thing, with a ring made from titanium arrowheads resting in his palm, after he'd asked her to marry him.

Unbreakable, incorrigible, inexplicable. Them in a nutshell. They weren't selfish, but they were that. At the very least, it meant that there was a chance they'd get their day. Felicity warmed at the thought and wrapped her arms around Oliver's neck as he lifted her into his lap.

"I like it," she murmured, sliding her hands beneath his collar, trailing her open palms over warm skin. "And I love you."

Oliver had been about to answer when the monitors flared suddenly to blinding brightness, startling them apart.

Felicity raised a hand to shield her eyes. "What the —?"

"I detect a coded transmission," ORACLE said unapologetically, apparently oblivious to the interruption. "Three times in the last five minutes. It appears to be a form of ARGUS code."

They turned to look at each other. "ARGUS?" Felicity repeated.

"An alpha-level encryption," ORACLE confirmed. "Coming from a location in Starling City."

"What does it say?" Oliver asked.

There was a split second silence as ORACLE ran the decoding algorithms. "It says — _I'm waiting for you_."

* * *

" _I'm waiting for you_?" Lyla repeated. "And ORACLE was able to crack it?"

Felicity almost dropped Oliver's quiver when she tried to do something jaunty with it. Fail, so much fail. "I've learned that a lot of questions can be answered if I just say: it's an artificially intelligent system designed to hack into and understand everything on a computer."

Oliver zipped up the front of his suit and slung the quiver across his back. "It said the code was alpha level." His tone suggested that he knew more about it than Felicity did.

"Is that bad?" Felicity asked.

Lyla smoothed down the shoulders of Diggle's jacket, a frown on her face. "Only a handful of ARGUS agents have the clearance to use that code. It's alpha-level clearance only, meaning the person who used it is someone in command."

"Given our luck, I'm guessing it's not someone we'd want to invite over for dinner," Diggle said.

Lyla shook her head. "Darhk wasn't alpha-level," she answered. "The only people who know about the code are — _were_ — agents like myself. People like Waller, Colonel Trevor — but I don't see how either of them would be in Starling."

"Especially since one of them's very dead," Felicity said, scanning the map of Starling. "ORACLE, can you interface with navigation and take us to a hidden landing area?"

"I detect a concentration of 911 calls in zone 52," ORACLE responded. "I'm attempting to take over navigation, but the pilot seems reluctant to grant me control."

Felicity sighed. "CISCO!" she shouted, in the direction of the cockpit. "Stop fighting with the computer!"

" _Hah_ — I'm not letting a demonic spirit fly us into the harbor!" Cisco said, very loudly. "I'm staying on controls."

"Roy," Felicity made a face. "Could you and Barry 'persuade' him to choose the path of least resistance?"

It was Roy's turn to sigh. "No finger-breaking, right?" he said wearily, starting towards the cockpit with Barry.

"That's why I'm sending Barry with you," Felicity muttered.

"What are we looking at?" Diggle asked, looking over her shoulder at the map. He had a ski mask in his hands, and Felicity reminded herself to have a discussion about a mask — sorry — _identity concealment_ at a later date.

Felicity drew a circle around the densest area of 911 distress calls. "Royal Flush Gang just intercepted a shipment of high-end diamonds in the Glades, worth a few million by the case…and I'm getting reports of people turning up in hospitals with frostbite and third-degree burns."

"That's Captain Cold and Heatwave," Caitlin said, and winced. "Sometimes I wish Cisco says the names out loud to himself first."

"The SCPD?" Oliver asked. "How many?"

Felicity shook her head. "Not enough. There's reports of gang activity in the middle of the Glades." She turned. "They're going all out to send a message."

Oliver met her gaze head-on, his bow in hand. "Then let's send one right back," he said. "Tell ORACLE to fly us into the Glades."

"Are you insane?" Thea said. "Are you trying to get every cop to come after you?"

"It's not as important as sending a message." Oliver glanced out the window, at the blaze of Starling City drawing closer on the horizon. "We haven't abandoned the city."

Felicity caught Oliver's eye and shook her head, but she was smiling. "You're crazy," she said.

Oliver smiled back. "So are you."

* * *

The wind blew Felicity's hair madly around her face as she watched him step up to the open bay doors. Her hand was knotted tight into the strap as a precaution against falling, but Oliver still felt an irrational stab of worry at seeing her so close to the edge.

"So we both know how it feels!" Felicity shouted, over the roar of the engines.

All around them, his friends were getting ready to go. Sara was with Nyssa, Lyla with Diggle and their daughter, Thea with Roy, Barry with Ray.

Then there was himself and Felicity. Oliver turned his back to the wind and ducked his head to put on his mask.

"Here," Felicity said, taking the mask from his gloved hands.

Her fingers were steady as she lowered the strap behind his head and adjusted the mask so it fit snugly around his eyes, all without him having to ask her to. She reached for his hood and Oliver bent his neck as she raised it over his head, giving the folds a gentle tug to settle them.

Felicity raised her face to his. "There," she whispered, and it was like a caress, the silent intimacy with which she carried out his routine, the one they'd both learned from countless other nights together in the Foundry.

It wasn't just any other night, not anymore, but there was something comforting about having Felicity put his mask on for him, having the warmth of her hands on his hood, a kind of wordless blessing as she sent him off to war.

"Be safe," she said. "It's not over yet, okay?"

Oliver nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He bent his head as Felicity raised herself on her toes, and their lips met in the middle, under the shadow of his hood. Oliver held her tight to him, his hands around her waist, feeling her fists clenched tight against his shoulders and the furious press of her mouth to his, as unwilling as he was to break apart.

"Oliver," said Diggle. "It's time!"

Felicity gasped when he let her go, but she clung to his face before he could move away and tilted his head down to press a kiss to his forehead. "Come back," she whispered, a bright blaze of determination against the darkness.

Oliver nodded, and realized he _did_ trust himself to speak, in the end. "I love you," he said, and stepped towards the wide-open doors. He wound a cable around his hand, clutched his bow tight with the other, and nodded at his friends and family, all braced to jump with him.

"Now," he said, and backed over the edge.

Oliver felt the air rush past his body as he plunged towards the ground, but the last face he saw with wide open eyes was Felicity's, pale as a star in the night sky, her hand outstretched as if to catch him while she watched him fall.

* * *

Oliver knew there were cameras. There was a crowd gathering beneath where they stood, on the roof of a destroyed truck, the Royal Flush Gang restrained in front of the truck's tires. He saw curiosity, he sensed fear, and he knew that their work was far, so far from being done.

But first, he had to send a message. To HIVE, to the Glades, to his city, to Damien Darhk.

"You've heard a lot of things," Oliver began, and realized that a hush had fallen over the crowd, without him having to ask them to.

"You've heard a few truths, but you've heard a lot of lies — about who we are, and about what we've done. Tonight, I want to tell you the truth — the truth about what happened."

Oliver glanced at his friends, standing beside him and facing their city. "We weren't taken by a federal agency, we weren't taken by the government. We were taken by ARGUS."

Something had fractured then, when he'd said the name of something secret, something never meant to be told.

"Most of you don't know the name, or you know it by a different meaning. You were meant to. ARGUS was meant to shield civilians like yourselves from crimes perpetrated by extraordinary people. For that purpose, they employed extraordinary measures, and recruited extraordinary individuals to stop them. But in the process, they missed something. They missed the sickness growing at the heart of ARGUS, and it came back to bite them as something called HIVE."

Oliver raised his bow. "There is a man named Damien Darhk, who works for HIVE. HIVE is ARGUS corrupted, responsible for the deaths of an untold number of people through covert operations. They are terrorists, they are assassins, and they are spies. They work to undermine security and destabilize societies for their own gain, and now they have a plan — to take out people like us, who want to do more for our homes, who take up masks to protect the people they love…because we can't be controlled. Because they think we're dangerous for trying." He paused, watching the words sink in. "We've lost friends, brothers, sisters, and parents — all to HIVE. This ends now. We are taking a stand against HIVE, against Damien Darhk, against the future they want for us."

"We're not saying that you don't have the right to punish us — we've taken the law into our own hands, and I know I've hurt people in the process. But we're trying to atone for that, by taking a stand against something as twisted and unaccountable as HIVE imposing justice onto all of us. We won't run, and we won't abandon you. All we ask is that you don't abandon us…until we've set things right."

Thea was on his left, Diggle on his right. Oliver felt his sister's hand slip into his, and saw his best friend nod. Barry grinned at him over Thea's head, and Oliver smiled back.

"We don't ask anyone to lay down their lives, or to sacrifice anything they're not willing to give," he said. "We just wanted all of you to know the truth, because the truth can be more powerful than any of us can imagine."

A police siren shattered the night, along with the dull roar of an explosion. Time to act. Beside him, Barry rippled with flashes of gold-and-red energy, cracking like a bolt of lightning as he prepared to run. Ray's suit glowed a furious blue, ready to fight. Nyssa drew her sword, a single curve of black crescent steel. Sara's hair rippled silver as she leapt onto the roof of a car and glanced over her shoulder, waiting for his signal.

Oliver drew his bow. The cameras went off in blinding flashes, but he faced them anyway.

"Tonight," he said, "the vigilantes of Starling City declare war on HIVE and Damien Darhk."

As Oliver released his arrow, Sara opened her mouth and pierced the sky with the canary's scream, a furious war cry that warned HIVE, and Darhk, who had to be watching, that Starling City would not go down without a fight.

And so it began.

* * *

"Nicely done," Felicity said, as the last few buildings at the edge of the Glades fell away beneath the thick cloud cover. "You'll be on the news cycle for the next week or so."

"His first success with public speaking," Diggle said, pulling the black mask from his head. "First time nobody hauled him off the stage for being drunk."

Oliver inclined his head. "You know, John, I think we should look into getting you a mask."

Diggle snorted and leaned over Felicity's empty chair. "Let's focus on getting ourselves to a safe location, shall we?"

Felicity laughed, slipping Oliver's mask from his face. She kissed him quickly on the cheek and bent towards the monitor. "ORACLE — take us to the League safehouse."

No response.

Felicity tapped the keys. "ORACLE. You there?"

"Felicity?" Both of Cisco's hands were off the controls. "It took over — like _seriously_ took over. I can't get it to stop."

Frack.

"ORACLE — authenticate. Felicity Megan Smoak, Oracle." Felicity slammed her palm into the controls. "ORACLE!"

"Recognized, Felicity Smoak, Oracle."

Felicity's eyes darted across the information on the monitor. "It's taking us to where the coded message was sent," she snapped, her voice taut with frustration. "Turn us around!"

"I am unable to accept this command, as I have one that supersedes it."

"Whose?" she demanded.

"Oracle," it said simply, and was silent.

They weren't flying for long; it seemed like minutes had passed before they began to descend. Felicity braced herself against the wall as the floor shuddered.

"Whoa," said Barry, staring out the window.

Felicity looked. What appeared to be dusty concrete in the middle of some abandoned factory complex was… _opening_. The ground was literally parting to admit the plane, and with a sickening rush, they descended into the murky dark.

They landed with a jolt that rattled her teeth, and Felicity reached for Oliver's hand as the bay doors opened into murky darkness.

"Welcome to your destination," said ORACLE.

Felicity stepped onto the ramp, listening to the hollow echo of her shoes on steel. It was a vast space, meant for something as big as a plane, and empty, as if it was unused.

She heard the near-silent draw of Oliver arming himself, and the telltale sounds of her friends doing the same.

"What is this?" she breathed.

Then —

Heels, clacking on concrete at a determined, but unhurried pace. Felicity turned towards the source of the sound.

The lights came on with the snap of a switch, and they squinted against the sudden glare. The glow started from the far end of what looked like an underground hangar, coming alive section by section, drawing closer, until —

Felicity took a step back, her shoulder bumping against Oliver. Her hand was over her mouth, because it wasn't possible.

It wasn't possible.

"Welcome," said Amanda Waller, very — but impossibly — alive.

Her familiar opaque gaze swept over them one by one, alighting last on Felicity. A smile twisted her thin lips, a smile Felicity had last seen before Ra's al Ghul's sword took off her head in a single stroke. "I've been waiting for you," she said.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," Felicity spat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you I had an insane WTF plot twist :D Sorry if I've lost you here, it's been nice having you along for the ride *hugs*
> 
> OKAY. Full disclosure on the update schedule:
> 
> I'm starting my summer job next week as an intern. The job's in Chinese, so I have no idea how it's going to affect me writing-wise if I've been thinking all day in a language (my second language, btw) separate from what I'm writing in. Basically, this is me apologizing in advance if the updates slow down. Not abandoning the story, you know my writing well enough by now to be sure that I'm not leaving Legacies hanging. I just have to be an adult for a little bit.
> 
> Ironically, once I get back to school, updates should go back to normal. Here's hoping :D
> 
> Don't give up on the story yet, okay? Love you guys, really, really. This story would be an unwritten single chapter at the back of my mind if it weren't for every one of you.
> 
> Cheers :)  
> Chronicolicity


	63. Phase One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO, how did everyone enjoy that last cliffhanger? :))))))))

Felicity was glad she'd been learning how to shoot. She was also glad that Diggle never went very far without a spare Glock in his belt. She reached behind her and closed her palm around the cold grip of a handgun, which she now raised — almost mechanically — to point at Amanda Waller's chest.

"You'd better start talking," she said. " _Now_."

Amanda raised her hands slowly, in what was undoubtedly meant as a sarcastic gesture. "We all know you're not going to shoot me."

Surprise — and people rising unexpectedly from a decapitation — had the unfortunate effect of upping Felicity's snark factor. To the max.

"Why?" she said. "Because we were _such_ good friends?"

In lieu of answering, Amanda tipped her head to the side, as if she was surveying a curiosity. Felicity's eye was drawn to the narrow white scar running the circumference of her graceful long neck, not unlike the silvery scar Oliver still had from when Ra's al Ghul's sword pierced his heart, and the marks of three arrows Sara still had on her stomach from her last fall.

They'd all died. They'd all kept their scars.

"Lazarus pit," Oliver said, evidently pursuing an identical train of thought.

Amanda inclined her head. "In a way," she agreed. "Hello, Mr. Queen, Miss Smoak. Or should I say _Mrs._ Queen?" Her eyes were on Felicity's ring, showing prominently on the hand clenched beneath the gun. "Mazel tov," she added sarcastically.

"We're not married," Oliver and Felicity said at the same time, which only seemed to amuse Amanda.

Lyla — like her husband — had her gun trained on Amanda as well.

"Amanda," she said, with surprising composure. "I would have appreciated the warning."

The two women — both ex-Directors of ARGUS — stared at each other, dislike and mutual history raising the already-palpable tension in the room.

"Director Michaels," Amanda said, and paused, as if she was reconsidering. "I suppose _Director_ is a term that no longer applies. Well _done_."

Diggle had — up until that point — been content with having a single gun directed at his wife's ex-boss. Amanda's targeted needling had apparently changed his mind, because he produced a spare (where he put those things, Felicity had no clue) from his jacket — and deliberately pointed both of them at Amanda's head.

"Whose fault is that?" he responded. "The way I see it, you and Darhk did a decent job of bringing down ARGUS yourselves. I've been teaching Felicity to shoot and she's getting very good at it, so you'd better start explaining yourself before she decides to show you firsthand."

Maybe Felicity's stance with a gun still needed some work, or maybe the idea of her shooting anyone was so profoundly unthreatening (ouch), but Amanda flicked her eyes across the group like they hadn't spoken at all.

"Allying yourself with the League of Assassins?" she said, with a curl to her lip. "Now, _that's_ something I didn't see coming, especially since Ra's and his thugs slaughtered half of Starling City's ARGUS."

Before Felicity could warn Amanda about the dangers of mentioning Ra's in front of his sword-happy daughter, Nyssa stepped past her and leapt down from the plane, her landing as soundless as a cat's. "After you brought down an unprovoked attack on hundreds of innocents," she said, in a voice that was cool and detached, very nearly contemptuous. "My father killed you for your crimes against the League."

"As your father killed Miss Lance for hers," Amanda said smoothly, surprisingly unfazed by one of the last faces she'd seen before her death. "Nyssa al Ghul. I see you've taken up the family business."

Nyssa's eyes flashed dangerously, but Amanda had already looked away, her gaze alighting on Thea. "Seems to be something of a trend," she remarked.

Felicity felt herself move instinctively to shield Oliver's sister from Amanda, just as surely as Oliver did the same.

"Keep my sister out of your games," Oliver said.

"Your should have considered that before you decided to give her a hood and mask, Mr. Queen," was Amanda's acid response. "Much like you, she's trained, and she's dangerous. That's more than enough to put her in the game."

"Could someone — for once — just _stay_ dead?" Felicity snapped, to no one in particular. She glanced at Sara. "No offense."

"None taken." Sara extended her Bo staff with a whip of her arm and hopped down from the plane to join Nyssa. "You were right." she said, tonelessly. "She's a snake."

Amanda's eyes gleamed at the insult. "A snake you'll have to ally yourself with, if you want to defeat the devil."

Felicity laughed, a harsh sound that would have surprised her — if her surprise quota hadn't long since been exhausted by Amanda's resurrection. "My dad brought you back, didn't he?" she said. "Unless you've been under a rock recently — and believe me, no one wishes that were the case more than I do — we just declared war on Damien Darhk. Ergo: us, working together? Not happening. _Ever_."

Amanda turned to Oliver, an eyebrow raised. "I see. You've always been rather practical about your alliances, Mr. Queen. Do you share your fiancée's opinion?"

Felicity had had it up to _here_. This whole fiasco, this war, it had started with the laptop Amanda inexplicably willed to her son. An uncrackable code in the guise of ORACLE, which had brought Damien Darhk's presence crashing straight into the relative peace of her world and turned it upside down. Damien had taken her friends, destroyed the Foundry, their home, he'd almost _killed_ Oliver right in front of her and driven a wedge between them with the fight that came afterward…

It took all of her self-control not to pull the trigger and send Amanda back to hell.

"Don't talk to him," she said, her voice low and shaking with anger. "Don't you _dare_ talk to any of us. Do you have any idea how much pain and suffering you caused? All of us almost _died_ because of Damien, and people are going to die because you helped him create ORACLE. Even if you stopped believing in your insane mass-murdering plan, you could have avoided all of this if you had just destroyed ORACLE yourself instead of sending it to me. What the _hell_ do you think there is left to say?"

Oliver's hand was on her arm, but Felicity didn't lower the gun. "Felicity," he said, just her name.

Felicity forced herself to breathe, to quell the sickening anger with calm, a reminder that Amanda still had a lot to answer for. That she didn't want to be a murderer, not even for someone like Amanda Waller.

The smile had been wiped from Amanda's face now, the mockery replaced by sincerity — as sincere as she could be, anyway. "You made the correct deduction. Your father did bring me back, but not for the reasons you imagine. ORACLE was our creation, and up until my death we'd had an understanding about Project Lazarus. If either one of us died before the Sentinel Initiative went live, the science would be used to bring us back so we could finish what we'd started."

"Darhk said you had a change of heart," Oliver said.

" _Heart_ being a very metaphorical word," Felicity said, acerbically.

Amanda ignored the jab. "We ended on a disagreement."

"About what?" Diggle said, not bothering to hide the distrust in his voice.

"About the best way forward," Amanda said. "Damien brought me back because he needed me, but he also thought that the effects of the Lazarus pit would prevent me from remembering our last disagreement. He was wrong. You'll notice he modified his methods thereafter, with nano-implants to control what his subjects consciously remembered. He was always good at computers, Agent Hannibal."

She looked right at Felicity then, and a knowing smile took over her features. "Like father, like daughter," she said, mockingly.

" _Amanda_ ," Oliver's tone was unmistakably in warning. "That's enough."

Even though her facial expression didn't change, Felicity silently admired Oliver's ability to shut anyone up — even Amanda Waller — when he used his angry voice. "Ra's took your head off," Felicity said, and her voice nearly betrayed her when it wavered, at the ghastly memory of a black sword cleaving through flesh and bone. "I watched you die. There's no way —"

"—that I could be standing twelve feet away, _very_ much alive?" Amanda's hand reached up to encircle the scar around her neck, the first indication she'd given of its existence. "I assure you, I'm very real, and since we're discussing impossible resurrections, would anyone care to make the contrast between an assassin who broke her neck tumbling from a rooftop with three arrows in her chest, a vigilante run through the heart, and a —"

"—headless psychopathic bitch?" Thea suggested. "I really don't know you all that well, but I think the difference is that they were kinda hoping you'd stay dead."

Amanda gave Thea the kind of smile that could freeze hellfire, but the latter — born with Moira's iron spine and the Queen family's indomitable pride — stood her ground with impressive coolness.

"You dislike me," she stated, almost indifferently. "All of you do. Believe it or not, I find that quite easy to tolerate. What I _can't_ tolerate is a debt, especially one that I've created. They don't sit well with me, and as unlikely as it sounds, I'm here to pay it off. I know what I've done — what I've created — borders on unforgivable, and I know I've given you no reason to trust me, but you're going to have to. Damien Darhk is a common enemy, and I intend to see him stopped…whatever the cost."

"That's where I'm having a little trouble connecting the dots," Felicity said. "You didn't just tolerate my dad, you _helped_ him. ORACLE's yours as much as his, and I'm betting Malcolm Merlyn's BFF position was too, pre-decapitation. So what the hell is crazy enough for two psychopaths to disagree on?"

Amanda folded her arms, suddenly business-like. "Damien wanted to eliminate threats before they had a chance to become them, which I agreed with — at first. That partnership became the Sentinel Initiative. To us, it was a necessary measure in a world where a damaged man suffering from unacknowledged Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome could pick up a bow and arrow and become a city's hero. In a world where a mundane CSI struck by lightning and recently out of a coma could use his newfound ability to run faster than the speed of sound and become his city's salvation. Without rules, without safeguards, without accountability."

Amanda's words bit, as they were intended to. "That was until I saw the way you dealt with Deathstroke and his army, and after I escaped Project Lazarus — Ra's al Ghul's. How was it that a group of ordinary human beings managed to quell a nearly invincible army with just a handful of fighters out in the field and an IT girl behind the computers? How was it that one man was able to change the face of Starling City forever —" She looked towards Barry, who shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny "—and galvanize something else in the process?"

"We're not part of the system," Oliver said, flatly. "We've never been part of the system."

"Because the system was flawed, Mr. Queen," Amanda said, and Felicity went still, because Amanda Waller admitting the flaws — the mistakes — of a system she'd been a part of…?

In the words of Cisco Ramon: _whoa_.

"Scorched earth is a tactic I'm well accustomed to using, but while it eliminates threats, it breeds fear and resentment — the two emotions mankind despise the most. Better to inspire, than to instill fear, and you've demonstrated that point beautifully."

"I'm not the first person to see that you've started something — Mr. Queen, Miss Smoak, and Mr. Diggle. Pristine and damage-free are words I would _not_ use to describe you all, but somehow, you've turned those difficulties into something…more. Something else. Bravery — enough to challenge a broken status quo. A readiness, not to hunt down the evils in your city, but to be prepared for them when they arise. As hard as it is for me to admit, you've acquitted yourselves marvelously on that front."

Felicity exchanged glances with Oliver and Diggle, who both looked as wary as she did. Amanda admitting she'd made a mistake was one thing, but paying them a compliment about the way they handled things in the process?

She lowered her gun, and the rest took it as a cue to do the same, if a little reluctantly. Amanda wasn't a danger to them, not if she viewed them as assets. She wasn't the pinnacle of trustworthiness, but Felicity knew that if Amanda had been working with Darhk, ORACLE would have reached his hands a long time ago — and they'd be on their knees, bullets in their skulls.

At the very least, there was that.

"What are you asking us?" Felicity said, bluntly.

Amanda looked amused, as if she was impressed with Felicity's quickness to cut to the chase.

"I have a new plan," she said. "To replace the Sentinel Initiative — to go head to head with it, as the present circumstances seem to require."

Diggle made a disparaging noise. "You're trying to save your own skin, because the city knows about the Sentinel Initiative, and it's got your name on it."

"The Sentinel Initiative _is_ something of mine," Amanda agreed. "But I'm dead, Mr. Diggle. For all intents and purposes — even to my own family — I died in service of my country, one year ago, in a bunker beneath Starling City. I could disappear, _easily_ , and leave you to fight Damien as you are. I have no doubt that you can beat him, but what comes after you bury the body?"

She paused, letting her words sink in.

"Damien Darhk may be one of the beast's heads, but burning him will only show HIVE that you're a threat, and they _will_ come, and your city _will_ suffer for it. By then, I'm not sure this team's little triumvirate will be able to stop them, what with the fact that you'll be serving time in Iron Heights for your actions as vigilantes. Besides that, you'll need to be prepared — better prepared than you are now. As it happens, there are…let's say _extraordinary_ individuals all over the country, all over the world, ready to fight in an alliance against this evil, and any evil that may arise. I've spent the last few months keeping track of the names, but most of them will be reluctant to join up, not without a show of sincerity on my part."

"This is an initiation," Oliver observed. "They won't trust you, so you're asking us to make this fight a call for recruitment."

Amanda inclined her head. "Call it…a trial run, of sorts. Take down Damien Darhk, and you'll show what a partnership of individuals — humans and metas together — can do against a show of force by HIVE. You, and everyone in this room will be legends, Mr. Queen."

Felicity narrowed her eyes. "For doing what?" she asked.

A smile flitted across Amanda's features as she surveyed them all, drawing out the tension of the moment, a move that would shift the alliances in an already-unpredictable game.

"For being the first members of a league," she said, with the relish of someone delivering a closing line. "A league of heroes, ready to protect the world."

* * *

There was a long silence after the last echoes of Amanda's voice dissipated in the hangar. Felicity didn't speak, because — like everyone else in the room — the implications of what Amanda had just said were still in the process of sinking in.

"A what?" said Barry.

Amanda faced him with a smile. "You heard me, Mr. Allen. I want your little partnership to become official. The Flash — as I believe you prefer to be called — and the Arrow, the first members in an alliance that will make history. The likes of which the world has never seen."

Oliver put himself between Amanda and Barry, as if he was protecting the latter from what he knew the former to be capable of. "Just words, Amanda," he said, and Felicity knew the years of unfriendly history and unforgotten wounds still stood strong between them.

"I'm with him," Felicity agreed. "What is it, opposite day? You _hate_ us."

"I won't deny that I considered you minor annoyances," Amanda admitted. "But being dead…has a way of altering one's perspective. What was once an idea, well —" she raised her arms. "You're standing in phase one."

There was a pause, as everyone considered their surroundings for landmarks constituting _phase one_. Zilch.

"Deserted airplane hangar," Cisco said. " _Nice_."

"No, Mr. Ramon." Amanda turned and started to walk, singularly confident strides without a backward glance, as unchanged in her second life as she was in her first. "But if you'll all follow me, I'll show you what I have in mind."

* * *

"It's…a room," Barry said, as the door hissed shut behind their backs.

Even in near pitch-darkness, Felicity could sense Amanda rolling her eyes. Barry wasn't all that off, at least not by Felicity's estimation. The air felt a little too vast to be just a room, but there was an echoing quality to it that reminded her of the hangar, with surfaces that reflected the sound at them whenever they moved.

"Miss Smoak, if you would do the honors?" Amanda said, her voice reverberating in the space. "ORACLE still listens to you, after all."

Felicity shot her a look. "Does it?" she said, with a little edge. "I thought it knew how to play favorites."

"It acknowledges seniority." Amanda just sounded amused. "But go ahead — it'll listen."

Felicity raised her head to the ceiling. "ORACLE," she said, clear and careful. "Authenticate — Felicity Smoak."

"Still creepy," Cisco muttered.

The ground beneath their feet shivered, like some unseen heart had begun to beat, and the room flooded suddenly with light, bluish light from dozens of screens lined up in front of them in a sweeping half-moon.

"Acknowledged — Felicity Smoak, Oracle."

The smooth voice was unchanged, but it still raised the hairs at the back of her neck, especially here — this new place. Felicity lowered the hand in front of her eyes, adjusting gradually to the glare. They were standing in some kind of control station, set on a raised dais in the middle of a room. Never-been-touched screens, each as slim and transparent as panes of glass, reflecting a paled version of herself walking up to them and passing a hand across the console.

"I've seen this before," she said, almost to herself. "This design, it's…"

"Wayne Tech." Ray had evidently been thinking the same thing. They glanced at each other apprehensively, then towards Amanda.

"Does the CEO of Wayne Enterprises know that you've appropriated his tech for your clubhouse?" Felicity asked.

Amanda merely looked irritatingly smug. "Never you mind," she said.

Which was _so_ an answer. Not.

"While I realize your fondness for these contraptions, Sa'ida," Nyssa said, passing a fingertip across a glossy screen as if to check for dust, "this does seem to be rather too many computers."

Cisco let out a faint squeak, not-so-subtly masked by a hand over his mouth, like his patron saint had done something unthinkable. He shook his head at the scrutiny. "Never mind," he said, in a voice that was definitely a few octaves reedier than it usually was.

"Dr. Snow, Mr. Ramon," Amanda continued. "I understand you both have a taste for innovation. We have laboratories, and ORACLE transferred all your ongoing project files from STAR Labs into our archives this morning. I assure you, there's no better place to conduct your research than our facility."

Caitlin looked at Felicity with wide eyes. "Okay, that's a little creepy."

"You have _no_ idea," Felicity said, out the corner of her mouth.

Meanwhile, Barry leaned over the edge, peering at what waited for them below. "So if this is a clubhouse, where're the beanbag chairs? All I see is a table."

Amanda's eyes looked like they were in grave danger of disappearing into her skull. "A little more high-tech than your average table, Mr. Allen," she said, moving smoothly down the steps from the dais.

Barry beat her to it, squinting dubiously at the reflective surface of the circular glass table, using it as a mirror while he mashed down the untidy peaks in his hair that were a standard by-product of traveling faster than the speed of sound.

Amanda leaned past one of the high-backed chairs surrounding the table and laid her palm flat on the glass, as if she was initializing the starting sequence for ORACLE.

For an instant, nothing happened.

Then —

Everyone took a universal step back from the table when the glass started to glow, and a rotating map of the world shot up to dominate the few feet above the surface.

"The latest in holographic technology," Amanda explained. "It'll respond to events in real-time, world crises, natural disasters, crime reports — all over the world."

Felicity stared at Amanda through the shifting projection, as subtle as grains of sand in an hourglass. The bluish light paled her dark skin, making her look more like a resurgent ghost than ever. "Run by ORACLE," she observed. "This whole place…it uses ORACLE as a mainframe, doesn't it?"

"It's certainly has the capacity." Amanda's arms were folded behind her back as she surveyed the vast hangar through the glass wall at the far end of the room. "Zettabytes of processing power, more than what you have at Palmer Technologies, I believe, and it's only going to grow."

Ray looked up suddenly at the pointed statement. "That's more than enough for ORACLE to operate at full capacity. Heck, that's more than the whole world's global data _combined_. It's like you're trying to make this place into some kind of —"

"— watchtower," Oliver said, the first time Felicity had ever seen him think in sync with Ray.

Even a pin-drop would have been audible in the silence; everyone's eyes were on Amanda. "That's quite a setup you've got here," Diggle said, his arms crossed. "Trying to keep the world under control?"

Amanda smiled faintly, raising her head so the scar — in the half-light — looked whiter than ever. "If there's one thing death has taught me, it's that I can't predict every move in the game. All I can do is put my best pieces on the board and have the conviction that it'll be enough."

" _Quis custodiet ipsos custodes_ ," Felicity murmured, trailing her fingertips across the glass. "Who will guard the guardians?"

The glare from the table threw half of Amanda's face into shadow when she turned back to Felicity, a faint smile on her lips. "Such a shame, Miss Smoak, that ORACLE has to go. The world's smartest AI system could make a wondrous difference, but I'm afraid it's programmed to see everyone in this room as a threat. As far as risk assessment goes, it's simply too dangerous to keep around."

There was the cadence of a challenge in her words, implicitly testing Felicity's willingness to do what lay beyond Amanda's own capabilities.

Reclaim ORACLE.

Understand it.

Master it.

Change it.

Felicity breathed out, steady and slow, passing her hand across the hologram of the world. The projections rippled like water at the touch of her fingertips — all over the globe, all those images, all that information, just…waiting.

Waiting.

Maybe it was intuition, maybe it was luck, but all it took was a single gesture of her hand — a sudden flick of her fingers that splayed them out wide — and everything disappeared. Like an artist's blank canvas, the darkness before the first light.

Waiting for her to create.

Felicity leaned her elbows on the table. "We'll see what we can do about that," she said, but she wasn't looking at Amanda.

As if he could sense her gaze, as if he was — and always would be — uncannily attuned to wherever she was or whatever she was doing, Oliver lifted his head from across the table and smiled at her, approval warm in his eyes. It was a silent exchange that had in it everything Felicity wanted to know.

_I love you, and I trust you._

"One more thing," Amanda said. "I assume you're well aware of your situation. Three of you have been exposed as vigilantes — the Arrow, the Soldier, and the Hacker. Your names are out there, and the truth will endure. Offering you obscurity is no longer an option, but I _can_ offer you pardons from the government of the United States — if we have results, otherwise known as the end of the Sentinel Initiative. Its demise will be your defining moment, at least in the eyes of the world. Bring down Damien Darhk and his acts of unconstitutional surveillance, and I'll have enough leverage to get you three pardons from Senate."

"We're not another Suicide Squad, Amanda," Oliver said, with an undercurrent of danger in his tone. "You'd be wasting your time to try."

Amanda gleamed with amusement. "I've seen what you're capable of, Mr. Queen, and I don't imagine I'll send anyone after you with a nano-implant. But once again — you're right. This won't be a Suicide Squad, because that's not quite your narrative. Task Force X walks in the shadows, but this plan — should you choose to carry it out — will put you in the sun. This will be an unprecedented partnership, independent agents operating with non-governmental funding, responding when the world calls for aid. You'll be helping the world because you want to, and because all of you — together — are the people best qualified to do it." She paused. "At least, that's what I believe."

Lyla made a quiet noise of approval. "Choosing daylight, Amanda?" she said. "That's quite the change."

"Maybe I thought it was time the truth got the credit it deserved," Amanda replied, and they almost smiled at each other. Not in friendship — but acknowledgment, of two formidable forces in the game.

"Now," she continued, "I believe you all have a choice to make — the first of many in the days ahead. You have a _choice_ , between standing alone and standing united, between falling divided…and an unprecedented alliance that will make history as a symbol — a _beacon_ — of justice. Yes, Damien Darhk fears you. That's what it comes down to. He's afraid because people like you, who fight because they have something to fight for, stand an actual chance of doing what organizations like ARGUS never could, for all their bureaucracy and official secrecy — defeat evils like HIVE."

"Evils you helped create," Oliver said, bluntly.

"Yes," Amanda agreed, with surprising candor. "But I don't suppose I'll have to explain the concept of righting one's wrongs, do I, Mr. Queen?"

The corner of Oliver's mouth twitched. "No," he said, but Felicity knew it was far from a truce, not with his instinctive distrust of the woman who'd both broken him and made him who he was — for better, or for worse.

In the end, it was Felicity who spoke for them all. "We'll think about it," she said.

Amanda surveyed the group, her habit for calculated weighing and careful deductions as unchanged as ever. It took Felicity back to those awful hours in the ARGUS bunker, the sudden ambush that had separated the team and cost Amanda her life.

_There's steel in you, Miss Smoak, not just fire. If you ever want to be more than tech support for your little group of boys — you need to make the hard decisions, the tough calls._

Felicity remembered, and she straightened up, just a little, and looked Amanda Waller dead in the eye. Whether intentionally or not, her friends had looked to her in the war council against Damien Darhk, and they trusted her judgment now.

Amanda must have seen it, because she made a sound that was as close to a laugh as they were likely to get. "I knew you would," she said, but the subtext was clear, at least to Felicity.

_Well done, Miss Smoak._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okiee well on the bright side, the most draining part of the internship is just getting there and back. The actual work - close to non-existent. Yay, it's story-mapping time. And reading fanfiction.  
> It has come to this, ladies and gentlemen (mostly ladies, though, I'm guessing). I am reading fanfiction at work and trying not to piss myself laughing when I read something as anachronistic as someone from the 18th Century saying: "What ya doin'?" I shit you not. I nearly pissed myself trying so hard not to laugh. But that's just me being a complete b*tch about someone else's work, so I apologize. In my infinite stupidity, I somehow thought clicking into a fic tagged 'oral sex' while at work was a good idea. Spoiler alert: it was NOT. I nearly choked trying so hard not to laugh.
> 
> Side note: There is not enough fanfiction in the world for Outlander and Poldark. Also, an excellent Potterlock (Hogwarts/BBC Sherlock crossover) fic is the Magic of Deduction by theshoelessone which I've read twice and still adore. ARGHHHH my fangirl feels.
> 
> DID ANYONE JUST DIE AT STEPHEN AMELL'S LIVE FACEBOOK VIDEOS?! The one with Emily and the jersey was so cute and I'm feeling all sorts of things right now. THEY'RE SO CUTE AND ALL I SEE IS OLIVER AND FELICITY BEING HAPPY. BE HAPPY MY CHILDREN *insert Andy Dwyer gif where he throws flowers into the air*  
> AND THAT PICTURE OF EMILY IN A LEOTARD AND FISHNETS?! *descends into incoherence*  
> (sorry for all the stage directions, I'm feeling rather dramatic)


	64. A League of Their Own

"I don't like it," Felicity said, unzipping her jacket with one furious movement and tossing it onto the bed where Oliver sat. She paused, hands on her hips, as if she was reconsidering the statement.

"Okay, I like the idea of not going to prison and having zettabytes of data at my fingertips… _and_ saving the world while I'm at it," she said. "I like that _._ I don't like _her_."

Oliver wasn't inclined to disagree, but his teeth were gritted as he tried to edge his suit past his shoulders. There was a raised welt on the surface of his arm from when he'd deflected a blow from a steel rod, an injury he hadn't noticed at the time but was feeling acutely at the present.

He looked up when Felicity crouched in front of him with a first aid kit and began to peel the suit from his arm, even though he hadn't asked for help. "She just _ordered_ us here," she said, peering at the swelling. "And the worst part is —"

The rest of Felicity's sentence was garbled by her ripping open a packet of sterile dressing with her teeth.

"Felicity —" Oliver began.

"Hold still," she ordered, winding a bandage around his arm, as easily as habit. She continued to mutter angrily under her breath as she moved onto an inspection of his ribs, her focus on Amanda Waller and their unceremonious summons. Oliver caught the words _ORACLE_ , _rude_ , and _dead_ , scattered amongst several impressive profanities.

"Felicity," he said, loudly.

She blinked. "What?"

It was most likely exhaustion and the ridiculousness of the situation, but Oliver was torn between worry, and an absurd desire to laugh.

"I think this is the first time you've ever undressed me without blushing," he said, finally.

Felicity looked down at her hands, in the middle of smoothing a piece of tape across his side. "Oh," she said, the color rising in her cheeks. "I didn't even —"

"No," Oliver pulled Felicity onto the mattress so they were sitting side by side. "You didn't."

Felicity shut her eyes. "Sorry," she said. "I'm just…"

She seemed to have trouble choosing the word, and turned her attention to the inspection of his injuries instead. Oliver let her. Ever since they'd lost the Foundry — their home base, the part of their lives they'd never thought would change — established routines and old habits had become more important than ever, their strange, inverse way of reassuring themselves of normalcy.

The alcohol stung when Felicity dabbed it carefully around a scrape in his side. "I never thought I'd say this," she said thickly, "but it's getting surprisingly hard to keep track of people who've come back from the dead."

Oliver could hear the forced lightness in her voice, and the telltale way it shook. "You saw her die, Felicity," he said, gently. "You don't have to pretend with me."

"You're not supposed to cry when someone comes back to life," she said, still not looking at him. "Except maybe Voldemort. I'd cry if he came back — to fictional life, I mean. Stalin, probably. Maybe the guy who thought sweetcorn on pizzas would be a good idea. But not when — _frack_ —" She broke off with a curse, digging the heels of her hands into her eyes in frustration.

"Hey." Careless of the fresh bandages, Oliver held Felicity in his arms, stroked her hair and murmured soothing things he could barely hear, because the only thought overpowering all others was the fact that he wanted — needed — to comfort her.

"It's all right," Oliver said. "You're all right."

Felicity pressed her forehead to his chest with a stifled sound, and Oliver realized just how much of an effort it had been to hold it all back. Every breath shuddered her small shoulders, like the time he'd held her after she'd screamed herself awake from the nightmares, the first night they'd ever slept in the same bed.

The bad dreams and uneasy sleep had been an after-effect of seeing Amanda's head severed from her body, the first time she'd seen death so close, and so bloody.

Things were different now.

They knew the substance of each other's nightmares, memorized every cog and warped twist of reality — all because they'd fought them off with their bare hands in those dark, dark hours before the dawn. As little as Oliver wanted it to be true, Felicity had seen more than he'd been able to protect her from, and he was sorry for it.

Felicity's fist thumped against his chest. "I'm not supposed to be crying," she said, stubbornly. "We're okay — we're all okay, and I know what we have to do now, so what's wrong with me?"

 _What they had to do._ Oliver realized — with a deep twinge of remorse — that Felicity had been carrying more than her fair share of the burden, for longer than he'd known. Between ORACLE and her work in the labs; the deep, irreconcilable differences with her father and holding the whole team together, Felicity had taken the weight of the world on her shoulders, a world that was only going to get bigger — if they chose Amanda's ambitious plan.

"You're exhausted," Oliver said. "Nanda Parbat was supposed to be a break from all of this, but…"

"But," Felicity agreed, with a ghost of a laugh. "We couldn't keep our hands off each other in the weapons room, and I just _had_ to go jumping into the mystical fear pit."

Oliver shook his head. "Felicity, it's not your fault," he said, firmly. "None of this is. We trust you — all of us do — and we rely on you, more than we realized. Making the plans shouldn't be your burden to bear, and I'm sorry."

Oliver brushed her hair behind her ear, and kissed her damp cheek. "I'm sorry," he whispered again.

Felicity's eyes were brighter than usual, her lashes dark with tears, but she still lifted her head and smiled at him, as if nothing was wrong. "Who else is going to make sure you all come back in one piece?" she said, her hands lingering over his heart. "Believe it or not, most of the time I actually have to specify that you guys _not die_."

Oliver didn't say anything, because he knew the impossibility of those promises and he didn't want to lie, not now, not ever. So he wiped her tears away with the pads of his thumbs and laid her down to sleep, the only thing he could do for her, the only minuscule burden he could shoulder at that very moment.

Felicity didn't protest when he felt her forehead to check that she wasn't feverish, or when he drew the blankets up to her chin and smoothed the hair back from her face.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, lacing her fingers through his.

Oliver pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. "You care about us so much, Felicity," he said. "And I love you all the more for it. But you need to rest, especially with what's coming."

"You mean the job offer that deserves to have a whole new word created for it?" Felicity turned restlessly onto her side to face him. "We should talk about that."

"I know." Oliver squeezed her hand. "I know we do."

They'd be voting in the morning, and they needed to talk — about the choice that would change everything.

But not tonight.

"Sleep," he told her. "I'll be right here."

Felicity's grip was tight around his hand, fighting the rush of drowsiness when it came for her. Oliver sat beside her all the while, until the deep and steady breaths leaving her parted lips reassured him that she slept.

* * *

Oliver didn't sleep. He tried to, but the hours inched by and left him as awake as ever. He'd had nights like these before, and he'd always alleviated them with established routines in the Foundry. He'd practiced his archery or watched over his city through the ever-active scanners on the computers, set up with Felicity's reliable expertise.

He'd never told her, but even though he was always alone, even though they'd been nothing more than friends at the time, watching the mysterious lines of code scroll across the screen had been strangely comforting, because it was a reminder of her presence, like she was there with him.

But there was no Foundry, not anymore. It was in the early hours of a new day when Oliver finally sat up, careful not to wake Felicity. He turned to look at her over his shoulder, double-checking to make sure she slept. She'd flung her arm across his chest, and it now lay curved across the mattress, her palm loose and open on the sheet. Her face was half-hidden in the pillow, but the frown had eased from her features. Oliver's hand hovered above her cheek, but he thought the better of touching her, just in case it disturbed her rest.

She deserved to sleep untroubled, at least for a few more hours.

Oliver had just slipped his shirt back on when his phone started to buzz. He glanced at the lit screen and went very still.

It wasn't that he didn't know what to expect, because he did.

It was because he well and truly didn't know what to do.

The blankets rustled when Felicity turned in her sleep, responding to the noise. Oliver took his phone and stepped quickly from the room, letting the door hiss shut behind him.

His bare feet were soundless on the cool floor as he walked further down the hall, past the rooms where his friends slept, towards the only other place he did know. The phone continued to vibrate in the palm of his hand while he walked, and even though Oliver never took his eyes off the name, maybe a part of him wanted it to stop ringing.

The lights flared of their own accord when Oliver entered the control room. He came to a halt in front of the dark empty screens and exhaled, deeply.

Two more seconds and the phone would stop ringing, and it would be the end of that. But it wasn't right. The person calling deserved more than that, after everything they'd been through — whether he realized it or not. Oliver dismissed the thought with a shake of his head and raised the phone to his ear.

"Hello detective," he said.

* * *

"It's Captain now, did you know that?" Lance said, his gruff voice as unchanged as ever.

"I'm sorry," Oliver answered. It was the simplest thing that came to mind, as inadequate and thoughtless as it was — given all he had to apologize for. But if the Captain was angry, nothing he'd say could change his mind anyway, and Oliver was ready to accept that.

Only…it never came.

A chair creaked on Lance's end, and the man sighed, but it had more weariness in it than exasperation. "That was some speech you made," he said. "Couldn't have called me first to let me know that you were still alive? I could have been in the front row."

Oliver didn't smile. "I thought it was a bad idea to call. You're supposed to apprehend the Arrow on sight, and I didn't want to put you in a difficult position."

Lance's laugh was more of a bark. "Doom and gloom, Mr. Arrow," he said. "Sorry — I meant Mr. Queen."

Oliver shut his eyes, and for a long minute, there was only the sound of two men breathing, in the long, ringing silence that followed the admission of a truth.

Lance was the first to speak. "C'mon," he said, flatly. "On some level, I always knew it was you. All those times you came up with those godawful excuses, that time I called the Arrow and you were standing right beside me, the way Felicity talked about you…"

Lance chuckled, the breath wheezing in his throat. "The both of you are terrible liars, y'know that?" he said. "She lights up when she talks about the Arrow the same way she lights up when she talks about you. It's not hero worship or some kind of teenage crush either. Anyone with two eyes could have seen it — that you're the love of that girl's life. I didn't get to be Police Captain by not putting two and two together when it counted. _Of course_ I knew you were the Arrow."

Oliver was taken aback. Not at Lance's deduction, because he'd always known the Captain was far from unintelligent. He just hadn't been expecting Lance to lay the truth out in front of him, so calm, so collected, as if they were talking about something as mundane as the weather. He'd expected the name — the Arrow, the Hood — to be flung in his face like a weapon, for hate and resentment and betrayal to spew over. He'd expected the Captain to throw every filthy word he knew at the man who'd lied to him, at the man he'd hated for irreversibly hurting his two daughters, by being the worst and most selfish version of himself that he could be.

He'd been about to answer — when he thought the better of it. He took the phone away from his ear and did something he never thought he'd have to do.

He turned off the program that had filtered and distorted his voice every single time he'd taken a call as the Arrow. For the first time in his life, he was going to speak to Quentin Lance as both the Arrow and Oliver Queen.

"You still there?" Lance asked.

"I am," Oliver said, and there was a small pause as they both registered the sound of his real voice — what it meant. "Why?" he asked, simply. "Why didn't you?"

"Why didn't I turn you in?" Lance asked, with a low huff. "Maybe because you were doing good for the city. Maybe because I'd never seen anything like it before — a Robin Hood in a mask and leather, taking down Merlyn, Slade Wilson, that assassin guy Ra's-I-can't-remember-his-name, Brick, Vertigo…bad people who'd caused my city a lot of hurt."

"Maybe I never needed to know who you were, because you were enough — more than enough — as an ordinary citizen under the hood, some guy who just wanted to make a difference by taking a stand, the symbol Starling City needed to pull itself out of the darkness." He paused, as if in hesitation. "Maybe on some level…it was easier to hate Oliver Queen for the past and thank the Arrow for making sure my city had a future."

"You deserved to hate me," Oliver said, quietly. "You still do. I lied — about everything. I made you lie too."

"Hey — _hey_ ," Lance interrupted. "You may be a strong guy, you may do some pretty crazy stuff like jump from rooftops and dodge machine guns — but you can't make me tell a lie if I don't want to. You can apologize all you want, but _I'm_ the one who should be saying sorry to you. I lied to myself because it made it easier to hate you. For Laurel — for Sara — the divorce — my drinking — for everything that went wrong in those five years that you were gone. The lie was always easier to swallow than the truth, and hating you was always easier than facing up to what I'd done."

Oliver shook his head, even though Lance couldn't see him. "I hurt your family, Captain Lance, and I'm sorry for it. You had _every_ right to despise me, after what I did, and you have no reason to protect me now. Do what you have to, Captain. I won't ask for anything else."

Lance coughed like he'd said something amusing. "I thought you were smarter than that, Oliver. You want me to go after you? Police dogs, SWAT teams, tracking down your friends and freezing your accounts? I could do that — I'm sure some yuppie DA trying to make a good impression on the higher-ups is gonna try and make me — but for now, let me ask you a question, and I want you to think real hard on the answer."

"Detective —"

"Captain, dammit, how many times are you gonna forget?" Lance grunted and shook his head, like he was getting back to the point. "Here's my question: how many cops in this department have gone home every night to their husbands, wives, and children because you and your friends put your necks on the line, every night for the last four years, huh? How many?"

Oliver was silent.

"I thought so," Lance concluded, with relish. "I don't know what you've been smoking, and trust me, you shouldn't tell me since I'm still in the SCPD, whether I'm coming after you or not — but if you expected Starling City's finest to turn on you after everything you've done for them and this city — if you thought that I would ever mount a witch-hunt against you, after everything you've done, let me tell you, mister, you've got another think coming."

Oliver didn't know what to say. He drew himself up, for the first time since he'd started the conversation, straightening his spine like an invisible weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

"Thank you, Captain," he said. "Thank you for this."

"It's the least I could do, isn't it?" Lance responded brusquely. "Now — please tell me you've got a plan, going up against this Darhk guy. A part of me knows it'll spoil the surprise, but a part of me really wants to make sure I won't have to see you off to a super-max."

Oliver covered his eyes, fighting the urge to laugh — in spite of everything. "Going to jail's not on the cards," he said. "Not anymore. We have a plan to take on Darhk."

Lance breathed out in relief. "Good. Wasn't sure I had my _don't-be-an-idiot-and-a-martyr_ speech all prepped and ready to go. So what's the plan?"

"Felicity has an idea."

"Good, good. She's a smart girl, that one. You confident? You ready?"

Oliver raised his head and felt himself smile. "Yes," he said, without hesitation.

"So how are you gonna take this guy, huh? You got an army hidden somewhere?"

"Not an army." Oliver found his eye being drawn to the round table, lit from above by a pale clear light, the high-backed chairs casting shadows like statues in a marble hall. "More of…a league."

Lance whistled. "Lemme guess, Roy Harper, your sister, that red streak guy from Central City and the firework that's been zipping around town like a cartoon. And my Sara — she's there with you? Is she safe?"

"She is," Oliver promised. "Nyssa's here too."

"Good, good," Lance said again. "They take care of each other. That assassin girl's good for Sara — mind you, I'm not too fond of the job, or the big sword — but she takes care of my little girl." He inhaled. "You know that you can count on Starling to hold down the fort, right? I got any number of officers who'd be happy to say they fought for the Arrow."

"I couldn't —"

"You _could_ ," Lance corrected him. "Now, you gimme a call when it's time to fight, and I'll make sure everyone's ready to move. You've started something, Oliver, and you'd damned well make sure you finish it."

"What if it doesn't have to finish?" Oliver asked, suddenly. "What if there was…more? What if we were forming a league of our own, to make sure Starling, Central City, Metropolis, Gotham — to make sure they were all protected?"

"Against HIVE, right?" Lance said, and went quiet as he considered. "Other guys like you? _Together_? Like some kind of…squad?"

"On a more permanent basis," Oliver agreed. "A standing team. There's an offer — to get me, Felicity, and John pardons. We won't go to prison, and all we have to do is what we've always done — protect the city."

"Well, it would make my life a lot easier if I knew which number to call when things got out of hand," Lance said, bluntly. "You got some names in mind? Some super-powered friends?"

"Not yet," Oliver said. "But we will."

Lance exhaled, leaning back in his chair with a creak. "A year ago, if you'd told me that a man could run so fast that he'd be nothing but a blur of color and some static electricity, or that my daughter would be able to break glass with her shouting voice — I would have picked up the phone and called Arkham Asylum myself. But then one guy with nothing more than a bow and arrow and a mask turned things around for the better, and fought every impossible thing that came our way when no one thought he could. When you do what I do, you learn to tell the difference between the good and bad kind of crazy. A superhero team sounds _crazy_ , for sure, but it's the good kind of crazy, y'know? The kind that makes people believe in Santa, or finding a soul mate — good crazy, happy crazy. The kind of crazy you want to believe in."

"I'm just a rambling old man, I know," he continued, "but I'd rather be crazy and believe that you can pull this off. Start this League, Oliver, and make sure that every city in the world has someone like you when it calls. Even if it gets tough at first, remember that someone out there — a lot of someones — are gonna be happy you did."

Oliver nodded, and knew that he was smiling. "Thank you, Quentin," he said. "Thank you for saying…all of this."

"Don't thank me, not until I see you in person when all of this is over. I gotta hang up now, but Oliver —"

Lance took a deep breath, and Oliver waited.

"—you're a good kid," he said, finally. "Your mother would be so proud of you."

Coming from Quentin Lance, who loved his family more than anything in the world, who'd always looked at Oliver with barely-concealed contempt, telling him that Moira Queen would have been proud…it was the highest form of praise.

And Oliver was grateful for it.

"Goodbye Captain," he said. "I'll see you soon."

"See you soon."

A soft _click_ told Oliver that Lance had gone, and he flipped his phone into the palm of his hand, his arms folded across his chest as he weighed the decision he was close to making.

— "Who was that?"

Oliver turned in surprise. Felicity was standing in the doorway, looking up at him. She was wearing a loose shirt of his, rumpled from sleep, her arms wrapped around herself and her legs bared to the chilly air.

"You're cold," he said, and opened his arms. "You should have stayed in bed."

Felicity shook her head, but came into his arms anyway, leaning into his warmth with a faint sound of pleasure. "Who?" she asked, and he could see the worry in her eyes.

"Det—Captain Lance," he said, tucking a loose curl behind her ear.

Felicity raised her eyebrows. "How did that go?" she asked warily.

Oliver inclined his head. "Not like I was expecting," he said, drawing her closer. "It went… _well_."

"You mean he _didn't_ shout every curse word in his considerable vernacular at you?" Felicity asked. "No offence, but I was expecting a little backlash. Maybe a stern talking-to."

Oliver smiled at her easy acceptance of what he was telling her, like she hadn't thought Captain Lance would react the way Oliver had been sure he would.

"You never thought he'd hate me, did you?" he said.

Felicity released her bottom lip from her teeth and grinned at him. "Not for a second."

Oliver kissed the tip of her nose, working his way up her cheeks to her forehead, feeling her whole body shake with laughter. "I love you," he whispered, their foreheads resting together in the half-darkness.

"Before you say that," Felicity reminded him, her voice husky, "we should talk. About the big phase one. Thoughts?"

"What about you?" he asked, because he wanted her to be sure. "What about Amanda?"

Felicity made a noise of amusement. "Resurrected ex-ARGUS Director — I can handle. I'm just worried you'll try to lone wolf it and I'll have to stick with you out of marital solidarity. Compared to that, being in a league — test-driving the possibility of one, anyway — I can do. But how do you feel? About being a founding member of a league?"

Oliver thought about it, and Felicity waited patiently for his answer. "I don't know," he said, honestly. "But I do know two things."

Their fingers entwined, and Felicity smiled down at their clasped hands. "Do tell," she said.

"I know that I love you and I trust you," he answered, without hesitation, "and that…I haven't felt like I was in this alone for a while. Thank you for that."

Felicity shook her head, because after all this time, she still didn't see — she still didn't know — just how much he owed her, for something as simple and unforeseen as the coincidence of meeting.

Oliver lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the bumps of her knuckles, feeling the restless thrum of her blood beneath the thin skin.

"I haven't felt alone in a while because it's our crusade now," he said. "But for the first time in a long time — I feel like everything that I've done, all the… _extraordinary_ people I've met and the places I've seen…they've led me right here, to _this_ moment."

" _This_ choice." His voice was soft, almost hoarse. "For the first time in my life, I'm thinking about partnerships. It started with you, and me, and Diggle, and I still wouldn't trade it for anything in the world. But if three people can change something the way we changed Starling, imagine a league with Barry, Sara, Cisco, Caitlin…and Ray — think about what could happen. Think about what we could accomplish."

"Infinite," Felicity said, barely above a whisper. "Infinite possibilities — good ones."

Oliver nodded. "I want this," he admitted. "It's not perfect, and there's so much we still haven't thought about —"

"—giving ORACLE a face-lift from evil death database —" she volunteered.

"— doing this on our own terms, not Amanda's —" he added.

"—recruitment—"

"—your dubious approach as a mentor—"

Oliver pulled her close to him again, drawing a laugh from low in her throat. She swayed on her feet, her hands given up to his like they were dancing together, barefoot in the moonlight. He bent his head and kissed the soft, fragrant curve of her neck, inhaling the welcome scent of home on her skin. Not for the first time, Oliver was glad, so unspeakably glad that she had found him, and he had found her. For the love and trust between them that had weathered more than he could have imagined. That they'd made it, and they'd made it here.

"So is this real?" Felicity asked, tipping her head back with a smile on her lips, like she couldn't quite believe it. "Are we really?"

Oliver nodded, and warmed at the exhilarating sound of her laughter, the two of them relishing the brief, heady rush of the road stretching far and bright ahead. "Really," he said.

Felicity wound her arms around his neck and kissed him softly, lingeringly on the mouth. "Oliver Queen…wanting to work with people to save the world," she murmured.

Oliver tucked a trailing lock of hair behind her ear and smoothed his thumb down the curve of her cheek, smiling at the teasing in her voice. "What about it?" he asked.

Felicity _hm_ -ed thoughtfully and rested her chin in the dip of his collarbone. "Now I've seen everything," she said, and they both laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Det-sorry-Captain Lance doesn't come into this story a whole lot, but I really wanted to do a conversation between him and Oliver. It still bugs me the way the writers went about it in season 3. I know the whole SCPD/City going against the Arrow is a cool storyline to have, but it shouldn't have involved a total character reversal and frankly some shitty villainy by Ra's al Ghul.
> 
> No guarantees about the next update (boredom does have a way of sapping one's energy), but I'll try my best. Anyone have a cat named Barry/something Flash-related? A bunch of us are attempting to assemble a cat/dog Justice League thing on Tumblr and we have a Batman (my cat), Oliver (Klarolicityswan's), Arrow (jedichick04), and a Diggle (cxnorwalsh). Anyone out there have a Barry?
> 
> This is like the weirdest game of Pokemon (I'm guessing, based off of 'Gotta Catch Them All' being a catchphrase). Don't go by me, though, I was always more of a Digimon person. SORRY, my point was?
> 
> Right, see you next update. Cheers!


	65. All Together Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Saturday, guys (for my time zone, anyway)! What's this I hear about an Arrow season 4 trailer coming out?
> 
> You guys also took Amanda Waller coming back really well. Like seriously, I was expecting more expletives in the comments.

Felicity opened her eyes with a vague but unmistakable sense of calm. These days she woke with her heart in her throat, with the inexplicable feeling that she'd been running. But this time, it was easy and uneventful, as if she'd just taken a step from one room into another.

After nights of bad dreams, she knew the difference.

Felicity rested a hand on her stomach. Maybe that was it. She felt a little less queasy, easily the least nauseous since they'd gotten back to Starling City. Maybe not being twenty thousand feet up in the air helped (who was she kidding, with her fear of heights, of course it had).

It was still early, and Felicity saw — turning her head — that Oliver was asleep beside her. He'd slept with his cheek to her hair and a warm, heavy arm around her shoulders, his breathing slow and peaceful.

Felicity curled closer to him, smoothing her cool cheek against the steady warmth of his skin. Oliver's sleeping face was free of the lines that creased his forehead into its usual expression of broodiness. Sometimes he looked as heartbreakingly innocent as a boy, and Felicity could never bear to disturb him when he did.

Today, she only brushed her lips across his open palm, the one draped around her to hold her close. There were no words to express how glad Felicity was that Oliver hadn't received the backlash he'd been expecting from Captain Lance – not that Felicity had ever been sure of that happening.

Sometimes Felicity thought that she was close to deciphering Oliver's inexplicably self-blaming outlook, the one responsible for the sweeping declarations of guilt and _long_ blame-spirals. Then he'd do something so far from the realm of understandable and so very inside the realm of self-flagellation (conscience-wise) that Felicity gave up rational thought and wanted to sit on his chest until he _stopped_ with the self-guilt.

Case in point: he was hardwired to think of his working relationship with Captain Lance as something he needed to apologize for, evidenced by the stunned look in his eye when Felicity found him the night before.

Like Captain Lance was ever going to turn on him, after everything they'd been through. With all his clarity of perception when it came to other people, Oliver could sometimes be remarkably blind where he was concerned. Captain Lance was _not_ a vindictive man, and he had a conscience, one that never would have let him throw Oliver to the dogs when they'd worked as partners for the better part of two years.

"You lovable dummy," Felicity said, firmly but very quietly, to Oliver's sleeping face.

Now she was talking to him in his sleep. First sign of insanity. Almost as insane as —

Felicity's hand jumped to her mouth.

"Holy frack," she muttered, as a replay of the night before came rushing back.

_Did they really just —?_

"A league," she breathed, feeling the word leave her lips like a promise.

The last thing she wanted to do was wake Oliver, not after the kind of sleep they'd had in Nanda Parbat (i.e. not much), but she felt her face break into a wide smile as she lay in their bed, coming to grips with what they'd decided. It felt like they were racing towards the bottom of a hill, tearing at a breakneck pace, terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

Towards something else entirely.

Felicity couldn't have gone back to sleep even if she tried, so she slid quietly out of bed and rummaged in their bags for her computer. _Their_ , because whenever they packed to go somewhere, there was a tacit assumption on Oliver's part that his clothes were up for borrowing. Sure, Felicity had extended the same deal to him, but somehow she doubted that it had the same implications.

The gray Foundry sweatshirt (communal, as far as she was concerned) was near the top of Oliver's bag, and Felicity buried her nose in the soft folds with a small sigh of bliss. It smelled like Oliver – soap and metal and the slightest whiff of camphor, probably from the amount of ointment and sterile bandages he'd gone through in the years of wearing the sweatshirt. She wrapped it around her shoulders and settled herself against the wall at the corner of the room, sitting cross-legged while she waited for her computer to boot up.

She breathed in and out, slow and steady. It was a brave new world, the ground beneath her feet — _their_ feet. Whatever their friends decided, it was going to be something very different from here on out.

It wasn't perfect. Of course it wasn't. There were questions of trust – especially where Amanda Waller was concerned – and Damien Darhk to deal with, but it wouldn't have been them if everything just _fell_ into place. The _tumbled-there-after-an-earthquake_ kind of fall, maybe, but mostly fought for tooth-and-nail, because _hell yes_ that was them. Utterly incapable of taking no for an answer.

The thought made Felicity grin. "Okay," she said to herself.

Moment over. She slid her glasses onto her nose and flexed her fingers. There were decisions to be made and disasters to avert, but at least there was always Wi-Fi.

* * *

Oliver didn't remember the last time he'd woken up to the sound of Felicity typing. More often, she was the one to fall asleep first, leaving him to rescue her computer before it slid straight off the bed and onto the floor. But today, she was awake — and had been for a while, by the sound of it. The ferocity and speed with which she worked should have been alarming – or at least worrying – to anyone, but Oliver recognized it for what it was.

Felicity was all right.

Smiling to himself, Oliver raised himself on his elbows to watch her.

Felicity was sitting against the far wall of their small room, her fingers darting nimbly across the keyboard while her eyes followed whatever was on the screen of her computer. She was still dressed in the same rumpled clothes she'd slept in, in addition to a too-large gray sweatshirt he recognized as his, and her hair was sticking up unnoticed at the back of her head. Her small, bare foot bobbed silently to the rhythm of her typing, a habit Oliver had always found endearing.

There was something effortlessly lovely about her, even more so for the way Oliver felt when he looked at her — disarmed. Like his guard – his armor – had been down from the second he'd first met her.

"'Morning," Oliver said, his voice husky.

Felicity looked up in surprise and smiled, like he was a welcome interruption to the solitary world she worked in. "Hi," she said. "Did I wake you?"

Oliver shook his head and sat up, disentangling himself from the sheets. "And what have you been up to?"

"What _haven't_ I been up to?" Felicity set her laptop aside with a laugh and stood, unfolding her tantalizingly bare legs without any hint of self-consciousness.

Oliver watched the creased hem of his shirt rise even higher when Felicity raised her arms over her head to stretch, his attention lingering on the stray glimpse he'd had of her underwear for longer than he thought acceptably decent. Wrenching his gaze further up did nothing to help, not when the highest fastened button on the shirt still exposed a pale triangle of skin from throat to sternum. The sweatshirt hung past her hips and bagged around her wrists, but for some strange reason all Oliver could think of was how small Felicity was in comparison to him, and how easy it would be to lift her into his lap. Oversized clothes should have made anyone look ridiculous, but when Felicity wore them – Oliver always felt tight in the throat and uncomfortable everywhere else.

His focus also had a tendency to drift.

"I patched myself into the mainframe and added three extra Kerberos sub-levels to the security protocols," she continued, "and I hac- _accessed_ Ray's files on the ATOM suit's nanite-induced subatomic miniaturization. You know how he's been going boom lately? I wanted to know why, and it turns out, there was a glitch in the fourteenth-delta sector, and I'm pretty sure that's why all the fireworks have been happening. So I fixed _that_ , which means we should be good to go. Or – explosion-free, at least. Which is always a win. But not for the fourteenth-delta sector."

Oliver laughed, running a hand across his eyes. "Am I supposed to know why?"

Felicity grinned at the teasing in his voice and climbed back into bed with him, planting her legs on either side of Oliver's lap and her arms on his shoulders.

"No," she said, in a much softer voice. "But it makes me sound _very_ smart."

They smiled at each other, and Felicity lightly brushed her hair across one shoulder, leaving the side of her throat exposed. It was one of their implicit signals – one of the varied physical gestures developed as a result of their mutual shyness when it came to communicating how much they wanted each other. Felicity knew how much Oliver liked her throat, how often he'd followed an invisible trail from the curve of her shoulder to the spot behind her ear, and the rare occasions when he'd marked her with a stinging kiss, which she'd hidden beneath her hair and smiled about the day after, like a secret that was only theirs.

On an impulse, Oliver lowered his head and kissed her – at the deepest point of the shirt's neckline, exactly between her collarbones. Just a soft kiss, and a warm breath that fanned out across her skin to make it quiver with the promise of being touched.

Felicity's lips were slightly parted, a half-distracted, half-quizzical look on her face like she'd begun to articulate a question but had just – just – forgotten it.

"Felicity," Oliver said, very seriously, "you've always been a genius."

Even though Oliver had told her how smart she was a thousand times before, Felicity still blushed at the compliment. "I mean, I knew _that_ ," she muttered, fumbling with the cuffs of the sweatshirt. "Just didn't want to — _oh_ —"

Oliver tugged the sleeves down her arms and tossed the sweater halfway across the room. Their eyes were still locked when he slipped his hands beneath the shirt she'd borrowed, and Felicity bit her lip, as intent on his exploration as he was. A faint shiver of anticipation tingled across the soft skin of her thighs as he glided further up, and his palms spread across her hipbones, callused skin over silken-smooth, such a contrast of large and small that sometimes Oliver felt like he could have lifted her with just his two hands.

"Oliver." Felicity half-sighed his name. "Should we –?"

She never finished the sentence, because Oliver reversed their positions with a gentle push, and she landed on her back, her arms thrown up over her head.

"— _talk_ ," she said breathlessly, staring up at him.

Oliver bent over her, his hands planted above her shoulders. "About the league," he guessed.

"I mean…" she said, awkwardly. "I thought I'd make sure you weren't speaking out of sleep deprivation, or something."

It was so earnest that Oliver laughed again. "I still want this," he promised. "A permanent partnership, and you by my side. I remember what I said."

"On our terms, not Amanda's," Felicity added.

"Absolutely," Oliver said, emphatically.

Felicity wrapped her legs around his waist in response, pulling his body flush against hers. "Good," she said. "So I'm assuming you remember what you said about being able to go twice in a row?"

"Did I," Oliver murmured, tickling her throat with whispers. "Twice?"

Felicity's nails scraped lightly against his hips as she adjusted their positions. "Three, actually – now that I'm thinking about it. _Four_ , if I wear that red thing you like."

"Mm." Unfazed by the hyperbole, Oliver eased his hand into the waistband of her underwear and felt her arch beneath him, the beginnings of a moan in his ear. "I think I remember it differently. Weren't we talking about you?"

"M-my mistake." Felicity's fingers clutched at the back of his neck with exquisite ferocity, her words tight and distracted in her throat. "Who – who said anything about…about y—oh _god_ —"

* * *

Oliver found Diggle in the hangar, sitting on the open bay doors of the plane with a steaming cup of coffee.

"This seat taken?" Oliver asked.

"Free country," Diggle said tiredly, reaching behind him for the coffeepot.

Oliver's footsteps echoed on the sloping metal doors as he climbed up to join his friend. Diggle set a fresh cup on the ground between them and Oliver took it with thanks, stretching his legs out across the notched steel. It was chilly in the hangar, but it was quiet, and vast enough to make them feel like they were in open air – the closest they could get to it, given their situation.

"You—" Diggle squinted out of one eye "—do not look like hell." He paused, as if double-checking. "Why do you not look like hell?"

Oliver tasted his coffee and almost winced. The only coffee he'd encountered with that capability was the jet fuel Diggle made after a particularly brutal night out in the streets of Starling.

"That's strong," Oliver commented, taking another sip.

" _That's strong?_ " Diggle laughed hoarsely, bringing his hands up to cover his face. "Is that all you have to say? My wife's ex-boss, and head of a now-exposed secret spy organization, the woman who tortured you while you were supposed to be marooned on Lian Yu, not to mention _decapitated_ in front of Felicity – just returned highly not-dead, with a proposal that makes even you seem sane. God, just saying that makes me want to phone myself into Arkham."

"Does Lyla think so?"

"Lyla thinks _ambitious_ is Amanda's strong suit, and it's not about to change – one head-decapitation later." Diggle took a fortifying mouthful of coffee, and frowned into his mug. "Am I the only one still wondering how Darhk managed to do it? A part of me has this mental image of him with a needle and some sutures, but a part of me thinks he's more of a _staples_ guy."

Oliver tried not to laugh. "John, you had the same look on your face when saw Barry run, and now –"

"—I call him as a last-minute babysitter if the nanny phones in sick," Diggle finished. "I know, I know. Somehow I can't see myself doing that with Amanda."

"No," Oliver said, hiding a smile. "I wouldn't either."

"You bet your ass you won't — you're Sara's godfather. Babysitting duty comes with the turf," Diggle said, with his usual straight-faced humor. "But you're not here to talk about feeding your goddaughter kidney beans and sitting her down to watch _Nemo_ , are you?"

Oliver inclined his head. "No I'm not," he said. "It's about Amanda's proposal. I want to know if you'd…consider."

Diggle looked hard at him. "You're on board," he guessed, with something resembling surprise. "And so's Felicity. Either she did something to put that smile on your face – in which case, say nothing, and I do _not_ want to know – or something happened."

Again, true. On both counts, but Diggle had made it clear he did _not_ wish to be informed. "Captain Lance called."

Diggle whistled. "Does he need an address for the _Thank You_ card?"

Oliver lifted his shoulders in mild exasperation. "How–?"

"—because Quentin Lance is far from stupid, and he's just a man trying to do the right thing. He got himself demoted for helping out the Arrow two years ago. Of course he wouldn't turn on you now that he's Captain, after everything you've done for the city." Diggle shook his head, like Oliver had said something stupid. "You should know better than to expect him to."

It truly escaped Oliver how easily Felicity and Diggle were able to see right through him. But he _was_ grateful for it, unspeakably so. Diggle's trust in him – along with an uncompromising sense of honesty – also reminded Oliver of why, possibly more than any one of his friends, he wanted Diggle at his side too, if they formed the League.

"Captain Lance said that it sounded crazy," Oliver began.

"And he's right," Diggle said immediately. "A few days ago, the three of us were expecting to go to prison, and now you want to make this a permanent gig? Haven't you heard the concept of baby steps? Jesus, Oliver, I'm pretty sure this qualifies as a freaking space-leap."

"But how crazy were we – at the beginning, thinking that we could save Starling, just the three of us?" Oliver asked. "You're always telling me I should learn to let people in, that I should let people help me. This is me finally taking your advice."

Diggle drummed his fingers on the table. "I know, but I never imagined it'd be this terrifying," he said, sarcastically. "So why me?"

The question took Oliver aback. "What do you mean?"

"You have the human lightning bolt, a man who built his own suit of armor, a resurrected assassin who can bust through glass when she screams, and the person who redefines being the smartest person in the room — so yes, Oliver, I'm asking," Diggle said, with his characteristic frankness. "Why do you need me?"

"Because…you're my best friend," Oliver answered. "You're my partner, and John – honestly – I have never met a better man than you, no one with your moral compass and your capacity for bravery, and there's no one else I'd rather start…all of this with. We wanted our last fight to mean something, but this — this league — means it doesn't have to end. It's only the beginning."

A smile twitched at the corner of Diggle's mouth. "The beginning of what?" he asked.

Oliver thought for a moment, about the hopes, and fears, and everything he wanted the future to be. Dreams he never thought he'd live to see.

"Something strong enough to outlast all of us," he said, and raised his cup. "A legacy."

Diggle sighed with mock-weariness and tapped his cup against Oliver's. "And here I thought I'd just retire," he said, with a shake of his head. "But I guess I'm not done saving your ass."

It was an unconventional toast, but Oliver wouldn't have had it any other way. They drank in peaceable silence, and Oliver's eyes were still watering from the coffee when Diggle turned to him. "Hey," he said, quietly. "You're my best friend too, you know."

* * *

"Well," Felicity said, "suffice it to say that this is _not_ how I thought things would turn out."

Cisco pulled the lollipop out of his mouth with a faint _pop_. "You mean you weren't expecting a scary-eyed woman in charge of double-crosses and espionage to come back very not-dead through double-crosses and espionage?" he asked.

"Yes," Felicity answered.

"Just checking," Cisco said, wheeling himself across the room on his rolling chair to blow up the Channel-52 news feed. "Hey, you guys are on TV. _Still_."

Felicity swiveled, watching a repeat of Oliver's speech, still going strong on the local news cycle. She practically knew the words by heart at that point, as well as every possible angle of Oliver's distinctive chiseled jawline, stubble and all.

 _Honestly_ , it was a wonder that Starling City hadn't found out earlier.

"Well, you don't get two-four-six-se- _ven_ …people standing up on overturned cargo trucks, announcing that they're declaring war on secret terrorist organizations every night of the week, do you?" she said, before swinging back around to her work on the computers.

"Don't forget all the leather," Thea said, chewing on her nails. "And the Christmas lights on super-suit."

Roy – _ever_ the poster-child for getting the point – squinted at the images. "Is that really what I look like with my mask on?"

Thea sighed. "Big picture, pl—"

"– I could totally make you a new mask," Cisco interrupted. "No offense, but that shape's totally wrong for your cheekbones — which I hate you for, by the way. Anyway, I'm thinking we'll keep the red, but make the whole thing more…pointy."

"Just because I'm called Arsenal, it doesn't mean I want to walk around with spikes sticking out of my face."

"Not spikes, I'm talking about the corners. I'll render —"

"Hey, if anyone's getting a new suit," Thea said indignantly, "it should be the one walking around in an old hoodie and a leather jacket."

"Not to mention the greasepaint around your eyes like a raccoon." Roy widened his for emphasis. "Looks really great in the harsh light of day."

Felicity heard the faint thud of Roy getting hit (deserved, it was a low blow) but shushed them anyway. "ORACLE," she said. "Scan this room for threats."

" _Scanning_ –"

"How many rewrites is that?" Cisco asked, pointing with the lollipop.

Felicity counted silently. "Four."

Cisco nodded. "Mm. And have we considered the possibility that this is a hell-creature of the digital age and should be destroyed with the technological equivalent of holy water and dragon fire?"

"I think most people just call that Roy Harper," Thea said. "Have you seen him try to use my laptop?"

" _Hey_ ," Roy protested.

"Scan complete."

Everyone shut up.

"Recognized – Felicity Megan Smoak. Threat level – high. Skills: Computational systems, cyber-security operations, computer engineering, advanced intellect. Events of note: creation of Brother Eye virus, and two-hundred-and-thirteen instances of high-security systems breach, and seventeen more incidents on file. Known affiliations: the Arrow, Starling City; the Flash, Central City; the ATOM, Starling City; the Ca –"

"How about we just skip to the part where you recommend killing me?" Felicity said, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Recommended course of action: conversion."

"Oh _hell_ no," said Cisco.

"No other threats detected," ORACLE summarized, cheerfully.

"Gee, thanks," Roy snarled.

Thea rubbed Felicity's shoulders sympathetically. "Fifth time's the charm?"

"Well," Felicity said. "At least I got it to go for conversion – which still sounds sketchy and _definitely_ not like a weekend in the Caymans – but it's definitely an improvement over neutralization. Baby steps, right?"

"She says, sitting in the control room of a watchtower," Roy added.

"I told you, we're calling it the _Cortex 2.0_ ," Cisco said.

"Whatever, nerd."

Felicity shut her eyes and slipped her glasses from her nose, wondering if listening to two teenage-minded men bicker was capable of inducing nausea. So far, her attempts to declaw ORACLE — i.e. rendering it incapable of interface with the drones on Damien's psycho ship — were proving unsuccessful. It was written into its DNA and unravelling it was going to take a hell of a lot more time than they had. But what choice did they have?

"Hey," Thea said, dropping to her knees beside Felicity's chair. "It's okay. Just…a little setback, that's all."

Felicity laughed shakily. "You said that last time."

"And I meant it. I may not know anything about computer algorithms or complex-sequence-whatevers, but I _know_ you can do this. ORACLE's _yours_. You fought for it, and if anyone can make it listen — it's you. It followed you all the way to the middle of _Tibet_ , for crying out loud."

Felicity squeezed Thea's hand, staring at the screens. The search for Damien Darhk was running, alongside her attempts to give ORACLE a little attitude adjustment.

"Thanks," she said, wholeheartedly meaning it. "Back to work?"

Thea could look extraordinarily cute when she smiled. "I'll be right here."

* * *

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…" Barry broke off when he realized that everyone – including Oliver and Felicity – were staring at him. Actually, in Oliver's case there was probably a more dangerous word for it. One that promised arrows in Barry's super-healing back.

Barry blinked, oblivious to the metaphorical freight truck about to run him flat. "What – too soon?" he asked.

Oliver shook his head while Felicity quietly buried her face in her palm. " _Anyway_ ," she said. "You all know why you're here, and what's coming. We declared war on Damien Darhk, and as soon as ORACLE finds his ship, we need to be ready to move."

"Amanda Waller wants us to start a League," Oliver continued. "She wants us to be the first response to crises like Ra's al Ghul, Damien Darhk — and HIVE — unusual threats, and unheard-of circumstances. Ones that our city won't be prepared for."

Oliver glanced at Diggle, who nodded. "But we will be," Diggle said, in his steady voice. "Because unlike Damien Darhk and HIVE, we believe that the best response to danger is to be prepared to face it when it comes our way, instead of sacrificing innocent lives for the risk of what they might become."

There was a moment of silence as Andy Diggle hovered in their thoughts, a stranger to all except a few, but no less of an example of the kind of waste — injustice — of a plan like Damien Darhk's.

"That's not our way," Diggle said, his voice hoarse with emotion. Lyla reached for his hand, and they both looked at their daughter, young and innocent — what they stood to lose.

"The three of us are in," Felicity said, looking at Oliver and Diggle. "For more reasons than one. Not going to prison sounds great — but getting to save the world with all of you sounds better. And let's just face it: every time something like this happens, don't we all just get together anyway?"

There were a few smiles now, especially from Nyssa — who usually smiled if it was at someone's expense. But not today.

"What about if we're already in a League?" Sara asked, exchanging looks with Nyssa, the kind Felicity was guilty of with Oliver. "Are we out?"

"No reason why you can't part-time it," Felicity said. "You should probably discuss that with your wife, though."

"Oh, she shall," Nyssa interrupted, and Sara took her hand with a laugh.

"But you don't have to decide today," Oliver said. "This conversation won't mean anything unless Darhk's plan fails."

"Ever the optimist," Barry interjected, with an affectionate shake of his head. "Epic game-changing plan or not, I guess some things are just _way_ too stubborn to budge."

Oliver smiled, and Felicity returned it, because she'd never seen him look so peaceful — even on the brink of a battle. "It's like someone once told me," he said, and Felicity felt his arm slip around her waist. "I need to let people help me."

Diggle folded his arms. "Damned straight."

Felicity saw Oliver's eyes flick towards the windows on the far wall of the hangar, and she wondered if he could sense that Amanda was watching, because of course she was — they'd chosen the hangar to have the meeting for a reason. It wasn't for the acoustics or the aesthetics, but to make sure that Amanda knew they had ground rules of their own.

Even if the league had been her plan, every single person in front of her knew the difference between an idea and the execution of it. An idea was a powerful thing. It gave inspiration and purpose, like a man in a mask standing up to save a corrupt city, but carrying it out took a toll — not just in blood, sweat, and tears, but in isolation and guilt as well.

Felicity kissed Oliver's cheek softly. Two things she could be sure of. The first: that Oliver Queen wouldn't be standing alone, not this time. The second: whatever Amanda's plans were for them, well-intentioned or less so, they'd end up putting their own spin on it anyway, because they weren't a second Suicide Squad — and Felicity had enough confidence in Amanda's smarts to know that she wasn't stupid enough to try and make them.

"The three of us are honored that you've followed us this far," Oliver said, with a smile. "Whatever happens next, if you choose to become a founding member of the league, and even if you don't — we're all proud of what we've accomplished, together. Let's not forget that."

Felicity looked them all in the eye. "On that note, let's kick some ass."

The meeting dispersed, and Barry was the first to stand up. "You know," he said, over his shoulder, "there's already a League of Assassins. If you want _this_ League to be its own thing, maybe you should think about giving it a name."

"Any ideas?" Oliver asked. "You were always better with the names."

Barry made a face. "A few," he said, modestly. "I'll tell you when I get my invitation."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ARGHHH watching Stephen in the WWE Raw video did things to me. That man is a gift to humanity, I swear.


	66. Yes, Yes, and Yes

"Ow," Felicity said, without much conviction.

Oliver's shadow blocked out some of the fluorescent glare, but instead of calling it quits for the day (or the lifetime), he only offered her his hand. "Come on," he said, albeit gently. "On your feet."

Felicity reluctantly grabbed his forearm and let him pull her off the canvas mats. "In hindsight," she said, rolling her neck with a crick, "when you told me that you had some time before your training session with Ray, I _probably_ shouldn't have followed that up by asking you to give me a refresher course. But I'm being overly negative here, maybe this wasn't…"

She trailed off, losing her words as she tended to when faced with Oliver's upper body…and its very conspicuous lack of a shirt.

Felicity almost reached for a table edge that wasn't there. " _Such_ a bad idea," she breathed.

Oliver's only answer was to give non-committal grunt. He nudged the side of her heel with his foot and tapped her back so she straightened up, if only in a reflexive response to his hand near the furrow of her spine.

Felicity let her head drop with a sigh. "I can't believe I wore yoga pants for this."

To be entirely fair, they were all supposed to be in war-prep mode, and while the activities (plural, just to be optimistic) Felicity had in mind were athletically challenging and a little tiring (after though, always after), they didn't exactly qualify as having preparatory value.

Not to most people, anyway.

Having satisfied himself that Felicity hadn't forgotten everything he'd taught her, Oliver retreated a few paces across the mats and they took up starting positions again.

It was mildly unfair, bordering on unethical, really, that Oliver had a habit of training shirtless. Felicity tried not to think about the number of times she'd first stared – openly – at the fascinating fluidity of muscle and bone on Oliver's upper body, all coiled power and honed strength wielded with tight precision.

The scars used to make her wonder, but now they made her blush, at the stray thought of Oliver patiently letting her explore, gentle, and claim – erasing the awkward unfamiliarity of his scars and hidden secrets with unspoken intimacy and monumental trust.

Now, here they were. Four years later.

On the brink of forming a league, still together, and Oliver was reminding her how to defend herself.

The room was vast, all concrete walls and soaring ceilings. It was a place meant for bigger things, but for now, it was just an archer and a hacker, moving in an odd, unexpectedly fluid dance of strike and reach, weave and block. Felicity had seen infinite variations of it before – Oliver and Diggle, Oliver and Sara, Oliver and Roy – but she'd never quite considered what it would be like to fight Oliver until he'd started to alternate with Diggle as her mentor, until he'd accepted that since (not _if_ anymore, just _since_ ) they were going to have a life together and keep up with the nocturnal side of their activities, she had to be able to do more than run faster than whatever was trying to get her.

And not to toot her own horn, but Felicity wasn't terrible. Nyssa could still have her on the ground in half a minute, but if Felicity ever came across an average Starling City thug, she had a decent chance of not ending up in the Emergency Room.

Felicity deflected Oliver's arm with the palm of her hand and side-stepped his reach. She was lighter, smaller, which meant that Oliver's usual mix of arm locks and throat punches were out of the question. Still, when he demonstrated, the technique looked like something ending with an - _itsu_ , all power and grace.

But when Felicity mimicked the maneuvers herself, it had an unfortunate tendency of looking like she was doing a lot of open-palmed slapping.

"I feel like I'm punishing you for being too handsy," she remarked, as her palm stung from a particularly ringing smack.

Oliver snorted at the comparison. "Never thought you minded," he said.

And on it went. Their shoes squeaked as they danced around each other, the odd huff of breath when one of them made a move and the solid _thwap_ of blocked hits.

"Faster," Oliver said, brushing her arm aside. "You need to keep up the pace."

You _keep up the pace_ , Felicity thought, disgruntled. List of things Oliver _never_ said to her when they were alone with each other — _he_ was the one always telling her to slow down in the bedroom.

Felicity's forearm met Oliver's open palm with a smack. "Felicity," he said, squeezing her arm lightly. "Concentrate."

Heat rushed into Felicity's face at the thought of Oliver reading her like a book, which she covered (in her opinion) very well – by aiming a knee at his stomach. Oliver caught it with both hands, easily, but Felicity gritted her teeth and swung back. She thrust an elbow towards his middle and yelped when he caught her by the forearm, spinning her around so her back collided into his chest.

His rapid breathing tickled her ear, the loose hairs escaping the back of her ponytail…her bared neck. "Now what?" he asked, hardly above a murmur.

Felicity's arms were pinned, crossed beneath her chest as she tried to remember what he'd taught her. Two heartbeats in her ears, and someone else in her head. Oliver was extraordinarily broad-chested, at least to Felicity – whose dating history had veered towards the pasty and narrow (unless Barry counted, but did Barry count?) – and his arms were a testament to what enough time hanging from various metal rods could do to the human body.

Hers?

_Don't go there._

If someone did get as close as Oliver was to her, they were either going to snap her neck or haul her off to Damien before they could finish the plan. She had to get free, and she had to assume it was going to be someone as trained as Oliver. Strength, dexterity, training – in all three he had her outmatched.

What _didn't_ he have on her?

Smarts. In that area, Felicity could lap anyone. Which was why she thought, rationally, that it might be a bad idea– what came next into her head.

The next, she thought: _what the hell_.

She cracked the side of her head into Oliver's and shoved her full weight against his body. Her temple stung and she was seeing stars, but it was worth it – to hear the utterly satisfying sound of Oliver cursing in surprise. They hit the mats with enough force to rush the air out Felicity's lungs, but she rolled, fighting her way through what seemed like a chaos of limbs and a lot of elbowing, until she had both knees clamped on either side of Oliver's muscled chest and her forearm pressed to the underside of his throat.

They were both very out of breath.

"I didn't teach you that," Oliver said, lying beneath her.

The appreciation in his tone was enough to make Felicity grin. "I improvised," she answered. "How'd I do?"

"Honestly?" Oliver looked almost awed. "You're remarkable. I think the last person to surprise me like that was Nyssa."

"Now you're just sucking up," Felicity said, but her stomach was doing happy-skips from the compliment. "I think normal human beings call what I just did _winging it_. How's the head?"

Oliver ran his hands up the length of her thighs, and suddenly, Felicity's choice of clothing started to suck a little less. "Thick skull," he said, smiling in a way that made Felicity want to bite his lip.

Felicity wondered – based on where his hands currently were – if Oliver was aroused by the sparring, or by the fact that she'd surprised him at something he was meant to be training her in.

Maybe he liked strong women.

Or maybe it was the pants.

Felicity leaned down and trailed kisses around his jaw, intentionally avoiding his mouth until Oliver turned his head and their lips met full-on. She wriggled a little, making full use of the friction between their bodies to pay Oliver back for the crash-course (at her request, but still), and laughed at the half-suppressed noise in his throat – like a warning for her to _not,_ garbled with the instinctive sound of her name.

She nibbled playfully on his lower lip, relishing the salty taste of his sweat and the ease with which their bodies could go from A to B, from mundane(ish) to _this_.

"When's your session?" she said, trying (and failing) not to sound like she was panting to get the rest of Oliver's clothes off.

Oliver seemed to be trying to figure out the mechanics of getting into her skin-tight sportswear. "Still a little time," he answered, gamely.

"You know," Felicity said breathlessly, "if we did it right here, it'd be like we were back in the Foundry again. There's no salmon ladder for me to hold onto, but…"

Oliver's head fell back against the mat and he laughed, the first time he'd so much as smiled at the mention of the Foundry. "I remember," he said. "I remember you trying to be quiet in case someone heard us."

Felicity glanced over their heads, at the high ceilings and gleaming concrete walls. _Sure_ to create a highly embarrassing echo. "Maybe not here," she conceded.

Oliver reared up, making her catch her breath in surprise. His hands braced her, holding her body to his. "But later?" he asked, in tantalizing closeness.

Felicity let their lips brush. "But later," she whispered.

As if in mutual acknowledgment that staying where they were was not going to be conducive to anything except two-sided torment, Felicity clambered off of Oliver and they sat side-by-side on the mats instead, Oliver's legs stretched out in front of him, Felicity's drawn up to her chest.

"What do you think?" she asked. "Any mental images of whipping recruits into shape?"

Oliver tipped his head back to the ceiling, like they were sitting on a bed of grass, watching the stars. "The Foundry wasn't anything special," he said. "Not at first. It was just a basement underneath a building my family owned. We must have had dozens of them. I had backups, and backups for the backups. I built that place expecting that I could clear out in minutes, if the police ever got too close. Choosing the space beneath my family's old steel factory was just…"

"Coincidence," Felicity prompted. "Like you and me."

Oliver made a soft sound of assent in his throat, almost a laugh, and nodded. "Like you and me," he agreed. "The reason – one of the reasons – the Foundry became so important to me was because of the people in it. It was where I first told John my secret, and the first time you saved my life – when I was bleeding out on a table. It was where I introduced Roy to the two most important people who knew my secret, and where I showed my sister who I was – who I really was — and she accepted me."

Felicity pressed her lips to Oliver's shoulder in silent agreement. The Foundry was where they'd first trusted each other, where they'd had explosive fights, sure, but also quiet apologies, after. It was where they'd all come back hurt at some point, and where they'd helped each other patch up the cracks.

They'd disagreed and fought with each other, but they'd also shared secrets and cemented friendships. They'd built the place up from the ground and turned it into more than just a hideout, but a safe haven where they'd all – at some point – come home.

Even with Felicity's overactive imagination, it was hard to see their new surroundings — with its high-tech, chilly, and ostensibly alien atmosphere — becoming as important as the Foundry had been to them.

"You changed all our lives in the Foundry," she murmured, and felt the breath catch in her throat. "I'm sorry."

She'd put every ounce of regret into the words – regret that they'd had to lose their second home, regret that it'd been largely her fault, Damien's double-cross or not.

"I'm really sorry, Oliver," she said, again.

Oliver turned his head to give her a puzzled look. "Felicity, that's not what I meant."

"But –"

Oliver brushed her hair behind one ear and stroked the curve of her jaw with his thumb. "It's the people who make a place what it is. Even if it doesn't feel like home right now – even if we'll end up moving somewhere else – it doesn't matter. It's not the glass cases, or the computers, or the training space…it's the people I care about. You, my family, my friends. That's all there is."

Felicity ducked her head, feeling shy again, and it was Oliver who kissed the side of her head – oblivious to the fact that the both of them were all kinds of sweaty – and gradually worked his way down to her cheek, her lips…

"Do you know what – _mmf_ – rule number one is?" she asked, between kisses.

"Hm?"

Felicity was already grinning. " _Keep up the pace_ ," she said, and before Oliver could say _Foundry_ , she was climbing onto his back, looping her arms around his neck and depositing indiscriminate (and poorly-aimed) kisses along the skin of Oliver's bare back.

Oliver laughed – like she'd meant him to – and captured her legs beneath his elbows, hoisting her off the ground. It was undignified and messy and all kinds of childish, but Felicity couldn't stop herself from squeaking when Oliver pinched her waist and thighs, because it tickled like hell.

Then, out of the blue –

" _Guys_ ," came a voice.

They both stopped, and looked up towards the (she now realized) wide open doors. Huh. She hadn't heard them open.

Barry and Ray were both staring at them, the former with an expression of _oh-god-I-just-saw-something-unsightly_ , the latter with _uh-wait-what?_

" _Must_ you?" Barry said, looking grossed out. "This is – like – communal property."

"Sorry, Barry," Felicity said, automatically.

Oliver made no such apology, but Felicity slid off his back anyway, stooping to reach for her towel and water bottle. "What are you doing here? I thought it was just Ray getting –"

– _his ass kicked._

"– _trained_ ," Felicity finished, fooling nobody except Ray (oh, the poor darling).

Barry jabbed his thumb at the corridor. "Dig and Roy were right behind us, but they said to go ahead." He paused to give them both a reprimanding glare. "I guess now I know why."

There was a loud – and poorly concealed – cough from outside the doors that sounded distinctly like someone saying " _sucker!_ "

Felicity, her cheeks red, hiccoughed and made a show of drying her neck with the towel.

"I can't imagine," Oliver said, completely straight-faced.

"Well, thanks to… _that_ –" Barry made a vague, all-encompassing gesture towards them "— now I don't need to."

"What's going on?" Diggle asked innocently, appearing in the doorway with Roy. "Felicity – didn't know you were training."

Oliver's hand settled gently – but firmly – in between Felicity's shoulder blades. "I was just…"

"Walking me out," she finished, and gave his arm a gentle tug. " _I_ have a search to check up on, and you guys have your rolling-around-the-floor-stuff to do."

That came out much dirtier than she intended, especially given what two out of the four non-participants had just witnessed.

Ray looked like he'd walked into the wrong class on the first day of freshman year (which she did _not_ have personal experience with, just BTW). "Are…they always like this?"

Diggle bobbed his head, arms stoically folded. " _Always_ ," he promised.

"You learn to choose your moments," Roy added. "And to knock. Like really. _Knock_."

"Copy that," said Ray. "Or is it _roger_? I never knew the difference."

Barry made a suspiciously high-pitched noise of relief. "It's like they're the same person," he said cheerfully.

Felicity widened her eyes in warning, and Barry _aherm_ -ed into his hand. "Sorry – you were going?" he said.

Oliver looked between Barry, Ray, and Felicity, more curiosity on his face than outright _I'm-gonna-leave-enough-arrows-in-you-to-make-you-a-porcupine_ , but it wouldn't stay that way for long if any of them were asked a direct question.

"Oliver?" Felicity was already walking. "You coming?"

* * *

"Are you going to tell me what that's about?" Oliver asked, once they'd made it into the hallway.

Felicity fiddled with the lid of her water bottle with unnecessary preoccupation, given how well Oliver knew her.

"Fe-li-ci-ty," he said, carefully enunciating the syllables in her name. "What's going on?"

"I am _not_ telling you unless you promise not to create anymore porcupines," she said, firmly. "Promise?"

"What—"

" _Promise_ ," she repeated, dangerously.

"I promise. What did Barry do?"

"Barry?" She raised her eyebrows. "Oh, Barry didn't do anything. And Ray didn't do anything. Let's just be clear that nobody did anything to anyone in this scenario, okay? It wasn't like the time I kissed him, or when he saw me shirtless because said shirt was on fire, it was just a big, _huge_ load of –"

" – Felicity," Oliver said. " _Breathe._ What – happened?"

"Barry was just being jealous for you. Really sweet – also really unnecessary, but sweet. We'd just set up the lab in Nanda Parbat and he thought Ray offering to show me wrist exercises and me finishing his sentences was… _weird_. Like, jealous-over weird. But there's nothing to be jealous about, I mean – we're basically the same person, and you know how I'm always saying opposites attract, so really –"

Felicity stammered into silence, suddenly realizing she'd backed all the way into a wall. Oliver wasn't angry, not at all, but he couldn't quite resist the temptation of placing his hands on either side of Felicity's shoulders, and having her tilt her head back against the wall to look at him.

Especially given what he was about to ask. It helped to know that she wasn't going to run away before giving him a straight answer.

"You kissed Barry?" Oliver repeated. "And Ray saw you –"

Felicity held up her hands. "– oh _no_ , God no. Both of those were Barry. After he got out of the coma and you were being…you know… _you_. Emotionally constipated, delusions of guilt – Oliver Queen _circa_ 2012, basically."

"But you also kissed Ray."

Felicity's eyes widened. "How did you… _oh_. You came up to the office, and…"

Oliver nodded, and Felicity fidgeted, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Are you mad?" she asked, in a small voice. "I mean — we weren't together back then, but I know how I felt when you and Isabel…"

She didn't finish the sentence, but it hung in the air, old ghosts and past loves, kisses and touches that paled in contrast to what existed between them — right then.

Oliver's throat felt uncomfortably constricted, more so at the memory of watching Felicity and Ray together, and the unmistakable punch to the gut it had been, the thought that he'd let Felicity slip away forever.

After Laurel, Sara — _Isabel_ – Oliver couldn't in good conscience say that he was angry, especially given where they'd been three years ago, and how far they'd come since then. Felicity had been nothing but understanding, trusting, and – honestly – Oliver didn't think anything was strong enough to break them.

Did it bother him?

The fact that Barry had been drawn to Felicity, and the fact that Ray was _still_ as drawn to her as he had been, since the first day he'd walked into her office…it said more about Felicity than it did about them.

There was something very precious about Felicity, something light and incandescent and magnetic in her heart, her _soul_ , and Oliver was nothing but privileged that she'd chosen him.

Oliver knew then that he wasn't angry, because there was nothing to be angry about.

"I've told you this before, Felicity," he said. "I'm honored that you chose me, and I'm honored that you chose to stay."

Felicity exhaled in a rush, like she'd been holding in her breath. "Really?"

"If you'll still have me," he said, and he was smiling.

The worry vanished from Felicity's face in a burst of sunlight, and she dragged his face down to hers, giving him a kiss that seared away all traces of doubt in his head that she loved him – if there'd ever been any to begin with. "Please don't make this a fifth proposal," she said, hoarsely. "Because yes – yes – and _yes_ , Oliver Queen."

With so much uncertainty around them, it was a relief to have something he'd always know for sure, a furious, unquestionable fact as his touchstone. This. _Her_.

It was easy — always too easy — to forget himself when he was alone with Felicity. They were on the brink of getting carried away when Oliver stopped, lowering his head to her shoulder with a heavy sigh. "I'm late," he said.

"I know," she answered, but neither made a move to go.

Oliver contented himself with a soft kiss in the curve of her neck. "Promise me something," he said, lifting his head.

Felicity's fingertips trailed along the side of his jaw. "Mm?"

"When we're married," he said, "promise me that I'll be the only person you'll ever kiss, the only person you'll ever –"

" – be found in compromising positions with?" Felicity finished for him, and laughed, winding her arms around his neck. "If you promise you'll be mine for the conceivable eternity, and then some."

One more kiss, before he had to go.

"Felicity."

"Oliver."

Softly, against her smiling mouth: "I think I always was."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what happened, but I can't stop reading Olicity fanfiction. Need. More. To. Read. I've basically burned through everything MachaWicket ever wrote (probably shouldn't have done that at work, but eh, couldn't resist) and I read something really nice by ah-maa-zing called Quiet Dreams (You Keep To Yourself) which is (excuse the pun) AMAZING. But everyone probably already knew this.
> 
> Fic recs please! :D


	67. We Have a Deal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry I'm a little late with this week's update. My brain's been feeling clogged all week.

"You're late," Diggle said, as soon as Oliver stepped back inside the sparring room.

Oliver couldn't quite overlook the relish in his best friend's voice. "Technically, I was here before all of you."

"Mm-hm." Even in the process of wrapping his knuckles, Diggle could still sound sarcastic. "Since we're being technical, I should probably point out that giving your fiancée a piggyback ride doesn't exactly tick the boxes for Basic Self-Defence Technique."

Oliver ducked his head in order to hide the smile on his face, a reflexive response to remembering the sound of Felicity's laugh in his ear and the warmth of her kisses on his bare skin.

"Good lord," Diggle sighed, because he'd evidently seen it anyway. "Please tell me I do not have to sub for you in newbie training today."

Oliver looked up at the incongruity of Diggle's sentiments. "Weren't you telling me to –?"

"Kick Palmer's ass?" Diggle finished, matter-of-factly. "Yes. But I know you well enough by now to know that you won't, because you have an impractical amount of self-control when it comes to expressing your feelings. I – on the other hand – do not, which is why I'm worried he won't have full use of his limbs if I'm the one training him."

"Expressing what feelings?" Oliver asked, blankly.

Diggle looked hard at him. "Please tell me we don't have to do this again. You seriously think that Palmer hasn't kissed Felicity? You seriously think he doesn't want to?"

There was a loud pop from the other side of the room. Oliver and Diggle looked over to find the others standing around a ruptured punching bag. Sand spilled from a fist-sized hole at arm-height, hissing as it spread all over the floor.

Barry had both hands up behind his head. "Sorry!" he called.

Roy sighed, lowering his head into his hand. Ray — who'd been bracing the bag — just looked fascinated. "Huh. You know, I've always wondered — how do you control your kinetic energy levels when you're just throwing a punch versus phasing through something? I mean, by Newton's second law —"

Diggle turned to Oliver as if to say, see?

To be entirely fair, Felicity was more likely to quote Doctor Who (at least he thought it was Doctor Who) than Newton's laws, but Oliver did see Diggle's point of view. He was being defensive of two close friends, in the face of someone he viewed largely as an outsider. Ray winning Queen Consolidated with an unexpected bid and changing the name to Palmer Technologies had never sat particularly well with Diggle, who held honor and loyalty above anything else.

Curiously, Oliver didn't feel the same tightness in his throat at the thought of Ray and Felicity – even though it'd become almost an instinct at this point, to expect discomfort at the thought of Felicity with someone who was so like her, and a match for her in every way.

"She's very…kissable," Oliver said, a word he'd never thought he would ever use, but with Felicity…

There didn't seem to be any other word for it. She was kissable. There was something about the way she laughed that made him wonder what it would be like to kiss her smiling mouth. Something about her full lower lip that was simultaneously innocent and alluring. Something about her voice that made him want to hear it low and breathless, tremors in his skin.

The way she held her breath when their lips touched, as if she'd forgotten how.

The way her hand curled into his shirt, tenaciously tight, both for support and to hold him to her, like she didn't want to let him go.

"Not to interrupt your regularly scheduled programming," Diggle said, in highly sarcastic tones. "But do you realize you were just defending Palmer?"

Oliver cleared his throat. "Look, I've talked about it with Felicity and it doesn't bother me. Besides, if I went after every guy who'd kissed Felicity, I'd have to go after Barry too, and I'm not going to do that."

There was a conspicuous pause. "You didn't just find out about Barry, did you?" Diggle asked.

Oliver blinked. "Didn't you?"

"Felicity talks a lot when she's nervous." Diggle folded his arms. "She told me when we went out for Big Belly the night she got back from Central City. When you shot Barry with two arrows, I assumed you were working out some repressed feelings."

Based on his recent conversation with Felicity and what Diggle was telling him, Oliver couldn't help but wonder why his friends seemed prone to showing jealousy on his behalf. It was exasperating, mildly embarrassing, but it also made him want to laugh.

"John," he said. "I appreciate the help, but I'm still committed to keeping Ray alive."

Diggle made a sound that indicated his disagreement. "Wait until he starts talking about his suit."

Oliver threw him a look, and Diggle raised his hands in mock-surrender. "All right, all right. But I'm not going to hide how much I'm enjoying watching you kick his ass."

"So are we doing this?" Ray asked. "Are you going to train me, Rocky-style?"

By the sidelines, Oliver sensed Barry miming throat-slashing motions. "Save your strength, dude. He does not like the Rocky references."

"O-kay. Nix the pop culture references. Got. It." Ray seemed to be looking around for equipment, as if he was expecting Oliver to haul sandbags into the middle of the mats. "No training dummies," he commented, swinging his arms nervously. "And here I was, wondering if you guys clobbered each other with pieces of metal pipe. Or ninja stars."

"No pipes. No training dummies," Oliver promised. "When I was on the island, all I had were the weapons I made with my own two hands, my surroundings, and a lot of people trying to kill me. Do you know what I learned?"

"To always carry a satellite phone in a waterproof pouch?" Ray said.

Oliver's self-control stretched a little thinner, and he sensed Diggle shaking his head in his peripheral vision, as if to say: I warned you.

"I learned to fight by reading my opponents," Oliver continued, a little more sharply than before. "I learned to anticipate their moves, to build up my instincts, and trust them to keep me alive. My bow — my arrows — they're just tools. They aren't the weapon. I am. The same applies to your suit. No matter how many explosives you pack onto your arm, at the end of the day, the only weapon you should be relying on is yourself. Your problem isn't the fact that you don't know how to use your weapons, it's the fact that you depend too much on them. Do you understand?"

"One-thousand percent," Ray said, and paused. "One thing — it's not really a question, more of general wondering, but…are you gonna put on a shirt?"

Someone snorted.

"No." Oliver felt the corners of his mouth twitch as he backed towards the center of the mats. "Come on. Let's see what you can do."

Ray tentatively followed. Oliver stood with his hands folded behind his back, though whether it was for self-discipline or a reminder to himself to rein in — he wasn't quite sure, and he preferred not to dissect his reasoning on the fact.

Ray was tall and solidly built, but Oliver could tell from the way that he raised his arms in front of him that he hadn't had much practical training. He was used to relying on his tech to compensate for inexperience, and given what Oliver knew about the functionality of his ridiculous suit — he had reason to be worried.

"So…is there, like, a signal?" Ray asked. "Do we bow? Is that a thing?"

"No," Oliver said, calmly. "You can make the first move."

"But you're not even —"

"Just. Do it."

Ray made a tentative punch. It was a straightforward jab, and Oliver turned aside to avoid it, all without moving an inch. Ray tried again, and Oliver arched backwards so his knuckles caught only the air beneath his chin.

"Again," he said.

A crease appeared between Ray's eyebrows and he swung, the strength of the punch propelling his whole body forward.

Which Oliver had been waiting for.

Oliver caught his wrist and slammed his forearm into Ray's chest, flipping him onto the mat. He landed with a solid thud.

There was a universal hiss of sympathy from the onlookers.

"Okay, that…was a little unexpected," Ray wheezed.

"Anticipate your opponent," Oliver said, grimly. "We're just getting started."

Felicity didn't normally like to be alone in dark spaces, but it was oddly soothing — to step inside the Cortex 2.0 (congrats, Cisco) when she was all gross and sweaty (reason number one why she was not an athlete). The room felt vast and limitless, the dimmed screens casting long and interspersed shadows across the steel floor.

She made no move to turn on the lights, but gave the screens a quick once-over. No sign of Damien. Zettabytes of data being processed in front of her eyes, and still she was waiting with bated breath. She cleared the screen with a wave of her hand and subsided into a leather swivel chair, staring down the black nothingness as if it could stare back.

It was always easier to start with a blank screen.

Nothing had changed. As her hands moved across the keyboard, filling the space with scrolling lines of code, Felicity found herself slipping into the rhythm of normalcy — which was to say, not normal. How many times had she created worlds with nothing but the sequences running from her fingertips like notes on a sheet?

The more she typed, the more it all made sense. Mistakes jumped out at her, and she removed them. She rewrote, so that she could understand — so that ORACLE would understand.

It wasn't a world of its own. She couldn't shift a few buildings and pronounce it fixed. ORACLE didn't work that way. It was a mind, a brilliant mind that had been taught to fear everything, to see the shadows lurking within human faces — to simplify complexities and identify dangers, even if the people marked as dangerous didn't know it themselves.

Felicity had to teach it something more…something else. It was programmed to fear, but now she programmed it to fear less. Instead of monsters in the shadows, she needed to teach it how to see brilliance, the diamonds glittering in the mouth of the dark mine.

On and on she typed, until the sweat on her skin had cooled and she was very nearly cold, until she half-expected Oliver to kiss the back of her neck and ask her to come to bed, because it was late, so late. But she worked, typing until she'd gotten out the last key and she knew it was time to stop.

The cursor blinked, and she hesitated for what seemed like ages, before finally pressing enter.

Almost at once, she hit a snag. "Warning: executive authentication required. Amanda Blake Waller and Felicity Megan Smoak."

Felicity shook her head, a tiny jerk — more of a spasm than anything else — and tipped her head back to the ceiling with a groan, feeling the heat in her skull throb behind her eyes.

"What to do about you?" she said, to the room at large.

"I don't know," said Amanda. "What indeed?"

"Jesus." Felicity swung around in her chair and glared at the shadows behind her, a vague approximation of where Amanda's voice had come from. "Don't you knock?" she snapped, her heartbeat thrumming uncomfortably fast in her throat.

"Old habits," Amanda said, stepping out from the shadows. "Still used to being a ghost."

Felicity didn't disagree. In the queer, contrasting light, Amanda's sharp features were thrown into greater relief, giving her the look of someone who'd risen from the grave.

"Nyssa al Ghul's taken quite a shine to you, I see," she said, looking down at Felicity. "I don't imagine she's in the business of saving lives. Especially not civilian ones. Yet here she is."

Felicity shifted in her chair, willing it not to squeak embarrassingly. It did. "Yeah, well, I can't help it — my personal charm appeals to an unusual demographic."

"I agree," Amanda said, disregarding the snark as if it had never existed. "I think we can both agree that this league — which I'm given to understand you're in favor of — is very fortunate to have you on its roster of founding members. You have a quality, one that I'm sure will appeal to the extraordinary individuals you're bound to find."

So she had been watching their meeting.

"We're not making them sign their names in blood, Amanda," Felicity said. "That's not the way things are going to work. And if you're trying to get me on your side behind everyone's back, it's not going to go well for you. I'm developing an immunity to persuasive sociopaths."

"Your father is a brilliant man, Miss Smoak," Amanda said, still detached as ever. "I should know, I recruited him — and I wanted to recruit you because of what he could do, before I'd even seen you in person. You can probably imagine the value I place on your family's talents."

"A little less value might have helped," Felicity said, an edge in her voice. "You know, since it probably might have prevented him from building his crazy super-ship."

Amanda made a dismissive sound. "I don't deal with maybes, Miss Smoak. I look at hard evidence and make my deductions accordingly. HIVE would have found a way to implement their vision eventually — Agent Hannibal was just smart enough to turn ARGUS fears and resources to his advantage."

"That's a funny way of saying I'm sorry for this mess," Felicity remarked. "It almost sounds as if you — well — aren't."

Amanda smiled like she'd said something amusing. "You've come very far, Miss Smoak, in leadership and decision-making, but your sentimental nature constantly gets in the way of the cold hard logic I know you're capable of. I don't deal with maybes, and I don't deal with regret. Neither of them serve any purpose except to muddy the waters, and people like us always need to see clearly."

Felicity massaged her temples in an effort to stop them from thudding like a brass band on graduation day. "People like us," she repeated, with a humorless laugh. "Funny how everyone seems to know who I am. Felicity Smoak, Felicity Darhk…"

"…Felicity Queen?"

Their eyes met. Felicity looked very hard to see if Amanda was being intentionally disparaging, but it'd sounded remarkably free of sarcasm.

"Not yet," Felicity said, silently twisting the ring around her finger. "To be determined on that one."

Amanda made a thoughtful sound under her breath. "If Oliver's one thing — it's stubborn. Believe me, it'll happen. My sincere congratulations, by the way. He's less…aggravating with you by his side."

Felicity hid an involuntary smile in her hand, trying not to think of the glittering birthday party that seemed so very far away now. "So I've been told," she said, the smile fading as she turned to the ORACLE search that was still running, and the rewrite she wasn't even sure would work.

She sighed. "Given the way my dad's turned out, maybe it's a good thing I'm not the only one in charge of ORACLE. Maybe power corrupts is in my blood."

Instantly she sensed Amanda's heightened interest. "You think I don't trust you?" she asked.

"I don't trust you," Felicity replied bluntly. "Only seems fair."

Amanda looked amused again. "Miss Smoak, why do you think ORACLE came into your hands?"

Felicity sighed. "Because — for some reason — you weren't okay with mass murder?"

Sometimes Felicity didn't know why she bothered with the sarcasm, if Amanda was just going to ignore it anyway.

"You weren't the only one I could have given it to," she said. "With all the agents at my disposal — why did I choose you? Irony? For the entertainment of pitting father against daughter?"

Felicity lifted her head and watched Amanda without speaking.

"Could it have been because — in spite of our previous differences, and your unusual parentage — I still value your judgment? ORACLE is more yours than mine, Felicity, even I can see that. You were meant to hold it in the palm of your hand."

"ORACLE thinks I'm a threat, Amanda," Felicity said. "It thinks I should be converted, which doesn't sound very nice, and it thinks Oliver, Barry and probably everyone in this building should be neutralized, which is even less nice."

"It's been programmed to see things a certain way," Amanda agreed. "But aren't you one of the brightest programmers this world has ever seen? You won't do it with a snap of your fingers, but I'm well aware of your limits, and ORACLE isn't it."

"I have written something." Felicity brought up the rewrite with a flick of her fingers. "But what if it doesn't work?"

"Warning: executive authentication required," it repeated. "Amanda Blake Waller and Felicity Megan Smoak."

Amanda watched Felicity with her inscrutable black gaze, before laying her palm on the reader. "Permission given," she said. "Amanda Blake Waller."

Felicity looked up at her in surprise.

"I have a deal for you," she said. "Bring down your father, and this new ORACLE is yours — completely. I'll take myself off executive command. This league will be yours, yours, Oliver's —"

"—and everyone's," Felicity finished, and paused, thinking rapidly. "You never answered my question. If you make us the guardians, who watches over us?"

Amanda gave a low ripple of a laugh. "You're asking about my backup plan, Miss Smoak?"

"Don't you always have a plan B?"

Amanda looked down at the computers with an enigmatic smile. "Let's cross that bridge when we come to it, shall we? End this, become Oracle, and let sleeping dogs lie."

"And you wonder why I don't trust you," Felicity said, but she reached out and put her palm flat on the glass.

The two women looked at each other as the screens flared suddenly bright, and Felicity made a choice.

"Deal," she said.

* * *

 

"Well," Ray grunted, face-flat on the mats. "That hurt."

"All right?" Oliver asked, offering him his hand. "Keep your weight evenly distributed."

"Evenly distributed. Right." Ray winced and heaved himself up onto his elbows. "Just out of curiosity — it wasn't that bad, was it?"

"It was way worse, Ray," Diggle interjected, before Oliver could answer.

Ray huffed, pulling himself up the rest of the way. "Bad," he repeated, and made a face. "Well, thanks for not laughing, then."

"Sorry," Barry said sheepishly, from the sidelines.

"All of us had to learn," Oliver said, tapping a faded scar in his side. "A man named Yao Fei shot me here – he taught me how to survive and how to use a bow and arrow."

Ray looked at Oliver's scars with renewed interest, evidently wondering how the rest of them had come about. "So what you're saying is – tough love works."

"I wouldn't really put it that way," Oliver said. "But yes. Everyone has scars, and everyone learns from them."

Ray looked momentarily thoughtful. "I have a scar from when I got my appendix out," he said, pointing at his middle. "I needed general anesthesia and I had to get eight stitches."

"Huh," Diggle said, as if he'd realized something. "You're right, Barry – same person."

"Right?" Barry agreed.

Oliver was amused, in spite of his earlier wariness towards Ray. "That's…not really the same thing," he said, mildly.

"Are you gonna tell me where you got the rest of those scars?" Ray asked curiously.

Oliver folded his arms behind his back again, smiling for real as he thought about the one person who'd seen all his scars and knew what they meant. The only person he had let – and would ever let – trace his scars by hand and ask the questions he would answer.

Then, right then, he was sure that he wanted it to stay between himself and Felicity.

"Maybe," he said. "But not today."

And he handed the rest of the session off to Roy, joining Diggle by the sidelines instead.

"I don't have any scars," Barry muttered moodily, looking like a dog trying to chase its tail when he attempted to check his back – in case Oliver's arrows had left a mark.

"You're never gonna see them without taking your shirt off," Diggle deadpanned, handing Oliver a towel and some water. "Then again, you've got some pretty intimidating competition here."

Coming from Diggle, who easily had the largest upper body Oliver had ever seen, that statement was more amusing than it should have been. Barry seemed to realize it too, and he eyed Diggle's muscled arms shiftily before he went off to join the others.

Oliver and Diggle took one look at each other, and their composure cracked. They laughed together, maybe in relief that they'd survived a group training session without any serious injury, maybe because they all needed some laughter – with everything going on around them.

"Well," Oliver said, catching his breath, "that wasn't so bad, was it?"

Diggle glanced at him. He'd been watching the mats, where Roy was currently trying to teach Ray how to scale a wall with his bare hands, not helped at all by Barry reminding them both that he could phase through solid objects.

"But why do I need to scale a wall?" Ray kept asking. "Won't I have my suit with me?"

"Did you literally learn nothing from getting thrown around just now?" Roy said exasperatedly. "You're the weapon, not your suit."

"Okay, so by that logic – wouldn't I punch my way through the wall? Parkour's not a weapon."

Roy looked like he was about to hit Ray. But in a non-adversarial way, which was an improvement as far as Roy's social skills were concerned.

"No," Diggle agreed. "Not bad at all."

Oliver laughed again, because it was times like these, when things he believed were impossible came together before his eyes, that he felt the lightest. Like he could do anything, anything in the world.

Like when he'd first asked Felicity to marry him.

When she'd agreed that they should start the league.

"This could work," he said, turning to look Diggle in the eye. "You see it too, don't you?"

Diggle smiled, half his attention on the odd sight of watching Ray try to flip Barry. "It's still crazy," he reassured him, "but our kind of crazy. The possible kind."

"So I should do it," Oliver said.

Diggle understood without needing him to specify. "Don't see why not – he's practically one of us."

Oliver shook his head with a smile and walked across the floor to Ray. They all looked over at his approach, mostly curious, some a little apprehensive.

It'd taken him longer than he should have, but better late than never.

"Ray, I'll be honest — you're not my type of person," Oliver said bluntly. "You talk too much, and —"

"—and there's the small fact that I stole your company," Ray interrupted. "And made myself a suit of armor so I could fight crime. And I kissed Felicity — which now in hindsight, I'm not sure why I told you."

Oliver paused to give Ray a pointed look, as did the others.

"Sorry," Ray coughed. "You were saying that I wasn't your favorite person. Which I am starting to understand. Sorry."

Oliver held out his hand. "But you're here now," he said. "We're glad to have you."

Ray's smile was slow but warm, more disbelief than hesitation. "Really?"

"Really," Oliver said, meaning every word. "Welcome to the team."

And they shook on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to happen sometime, didn't it? Believe me, I had this planned before I saw Ray's arc in 3B. If I'd written my story plan after seeing 3x17, he'd be a person-shaped hole in the sidewalk. Just my opinion, though.


	68. Face to Face

"Well," Lyla said, lowering her weapon, "it fires like a normal gun."

In the absence of earmuffs, Cisco's hands had been over his ears. " _WHAT?_ " he shouted, and the word reflected off the metallic walls of the lab.

Lyla caught Felicity's eye and neither made any effort to suppress their grins.

"Never ceases to amaze me – the things STAR Labs can come up with," Lyla said, picking up another handgun made to shoot nanite cartridges instead of bullets.

Felicity was still working on a tray of arrow shafts, attaching lightweight titanium injectors instead of Oliver's usual arrowheads. "Other fiancées make lunch and leave cute post-it notes on the fridge – I make sure my vigilante husband-to-be has the right pointy attachment for his arrows when he goes off to fight," she deadpanned. "Doesn't get more conventional than this."

Cisco scratched behind his ear with a pencil, scribbling loudly on a blueprint. "Don't _First-World-Problem_ me," he said darkly. "You guys all have somebody. _My_ standing date for Saturday night is –"

"—oh god, Cisco, please don't –" Felicity pleaded.

"— Playstation with Barry and Iris or bowling with Caitlin and Ronnie. My life _redefines_ third-wheeling," Cisco finished, with a glare that dared anyone to disagree.

Felicity exchanged looks with Lyla, a brief _you-or-me_ discussion before Lyla jumped on the figurative grenade. "Sometimes all you can do is wait for the right moment," she said, in a tone of voice Felicity identified as _sagely-wise-woman_ , right on par with Diggle's _sagely-advice_ voice. "I had to marry John twice."

Felicity chimed in. "Caitlin's fiancé shares a brain with a genius physicist and sometimes bursts into flames," she said. "Trust us, the right girl is going to turn up for you, and she won't be a supervillain's sister, or – you know – fazed by the sometimes-explosive toys you leave lying around. You can't expect _ordinary_ with people like us."

"Of course you'd say that. You have Oliver. _I'd_ marry Oliver," Cisco said, and made a face as he reconsidered. "But only if it didn't work out between him and Barry."

While Felicity liked the idea, she didn't really want to find out where she was in this scenario. "You're welcome to try," she said jokingly. "Four proposals and an almost-wedding later and we are _still_ in the engaged phase. If I didn't know any better, I'd say the universe is committed to keeping Oliver chronically unmarried."

"Have the two of you called anyone about rescheduling your appointment at City Hall?" Lyla asked, checking the magazine on one of the guns.

"Not really," Felicity said. "I mean – City Hall's right up there with the police precinct as far as _Worst Places for Oliver Queen to Show Up_ goes."

"Maybe," Lyla said, so cryptically that Felicity was instantly suspicious.

"What are you –?"

The door slid open. "Sorry we're late!" Caitlin said, walking in with Thea. "This place is massive."

The first thing Felicity saw was a fresh scrape on Thea's elbow and a welt on her bared midriff that looked suspiciously like it'd been made with a rod of some sort. Throw in the training clothes she had on…it equaled Nyssa plus Sara plus assassin-style fighting pointers.

Thea raised her arms placatingly. "Before you say anything —"

"Oh my god," Felicity said, slipping off her chair so that she could push Thea onto it. "Did you really have to go all out?"

"It's _fine_ ," Thea protested, squirming as Felicity crouched to get a look at her arm. "I just tried some new moves, that's all. Didn't realize the floor was going to be so rough."

" _Not_ fine. _Not_ all." Felicity started to grope one-handedly for the first-aid kit until she realized that Caitlin had already passed it to her, foreseeing her need to patch up Oliver's little sister while worry-scolding.

"It's fine, Cait — I'll do it." Felicity reached for the antibacterial spray (the kind that stung like a _mother_ ) and shook the canister. "I'm almost done with Oliver's arrows anyway."

Caitlin patted her shoulder. "I'll get the suit."

"Suit?" Thea said, distracted. "What — _argh — mother—!_ "

"— _language_ ," Lyla said, mildly.

Felicity sprayed Thea's elbow again for good measure and reached for a sterile bandage. "Seriously. You _know_ Oliver's going to bring down a nuclear armageddon if you get hurt during a League of Assassins three-way."

There was a very long pause as her words sank in.

"Um…" Cisco said helpfully. "Do-over?"

"Three-way _sparring_ ," Felicity corrected, her face crimson. "You know what I — shut up."

Thea was laughing, cradling her bandaged elbow. "I can't wait until we're actually family."

Felicity couldn't keep the frown on her face when she hugged Thea back, partly because she loved to laugh, partly because Oliver's little sister was ridiculously adorable when she wanted to be. "Mmf," she huffed, resting her chin on Thea's shoulder. "You and me both, but it's still a TBD on that one."

"Sooner than you think," Thea muttered.

"What?"

"Just a hunch," Thea said, and pointed at the box Caitlin brought over. "What's that?"

Felicity pulled away to open the box herself. "Early, _super_ early present for the youngest Queen," she said, sliding the lid away. "Happy Hanukkah."

Thea's eyes widened when she saw the red and black leather. " _No_ ," she said, in disbelief. "We just got back, how did you —?"

"Nyssa may have had something to do with that," Caitlin explained. "She had some spare armor lying around, and we had the tech down here…"

"Sucks that there isn't a _Project Runway_ for superheroes because we made it _work_ ," Cisco said, to general amusement. "Oh, and there's a mask. Compressible micro-fabric, perfect for an archer."

"How did you know?" Thea asked, lifting up the jacket. It definitely had a league-ish look about it, more black than red in the sleeves and legs, but it was lightweight, functional ( _armored,_ thank God), and different enough from Roy's suit to avoid confusion.

"Oliver may have mentioned that you want to be called the _Red Arrow_ ," Felicity said, with a smile. "Wanna try it on?"

"Um," Thea said. " _Yes_. I can't believe you did this, with everything going on, and —"

Felicity's phone buzzed and she broke off, still laughing, to answer it. "It's Det- _Captain_ Lance," she said, to no one in particular.

"Should be a fun conversation," Thea said, reading the display over her shoulder. "Maybe he's calling to ask about the flowers."

Felicity frowned, because she swore Caitlin winked at Thea over her shoulder. "Flowers? What flowers — _frack_ —" (Thea had answered for her) _"_ Hello? Captain Lance?"

"Channel 52," he said immediately, no preamble, straight to the point. "Are you seeing this?"

Felicity lifted her head, her senses prickling. "What's wrong?"

* * *

The answer: _TBD_

From what Felicity could tell, the networks had been replaying Oliver's speech in the Glades and the footage they'd gotten of the team fighting crime as a well-oiled machine. They still were — through the inexplicable static that had images and sound fraying in and out of cohesion.

"— _you've heard a—_ "

"— _sickness growing_ —"

"— _HIVE_ —"

"— _taken the law_ —"

"— _twisted and unaccountable_ —"

Felicity squeezed her eyes shut against the headache stretching her temples taut and throbbing. Behind her eyes, she still saw Oliver's hooded face, the golden flare of lightning and a crimson streak, the silver of Sara's hair, the screech of a car overturning — images all distorted by this deliberate interference.

"Not _again_." Cisco clicked through the channels, one by one, and they all showed the same thing. The same eerie disruption. "Okay, I'm creeped," he announced. "Any chance ORACLE has an evil twin?"

"I thought you said ORACLE was already evil," Caitlin pointed out. "What's the evil twin of something evil?"

Cisco rubbed his forehead like it was a wishing lamp. "A karmic double negative."

Felicity turned as the doors rushed open to admit the rest of the team. They'd all been training, and they'd all come when she called.

Oliver's eyes immediately locked with hers. "What's going on?" he asked.

Felicity shook her head. "I don't know."

" _It appears to be some kind of transmitted interference_ ," ORACLE said, making all of them except Felicity twitch. " _The signal is encoded, but I may be able to track—_ "

"—Darhk," Amanda and Lyla said simultaneously.

Felicity jerked, her fingernails digging into her forearms — like she hadn't wanted to accept the possibility that it might be him. Only Oliver noticed, and he pried her grip free with remarkable gentleness, slipping his fingers through hers without a word.

"Why would he do this?" Lyla asked. "It doesn't make any sense for him to jam every signal in Starling. There has to be something he wants."

"Getting the vigilantes who declared war on him and HIVE sounds like a pretty good motive," Roy pointed out. "We poked the bear, and now it's pissed."

"Agent Hannibal isn't some lumbering animal," Amanda said, her irritation scathing. "HIVE has always disguised its true nature as hearsay. By keeping itself hidden, it minimizes the chances of pursuit. Anyone who chases down a whisper becomes a fool, and HIVE protects itself with that. If Damien Darhk chooses to reveal himself — out in the open — we should all be very, very wary of his intentions."

"If we galvanized the city into fighting back," Oliver said, his voice low and careful, "what's Darhk going to do to stop it?"

Felicity already knew the answer, but Amanda said it for her.

"Figuratively?" she said. "Send it back into the darkness. Literally? He'll use fear to menace every single person in this city, to crush every _iota_ of resistance — until there's nothing left."

"Scorched earth," Diggle said. "Wonder why that's familiar."

Amanda's eyes flashed. "I'm on your side, Mr. Diggle, I'm just saying what you don't want to hear."

"On our side? You don't —"

"Stop it!" Felicity said, startling everyone, including herself. "We're all in this. Fighting amongst ourselves is something Damien expects, and I for one am _not_ tired of disappointing his list of evil expectations."

Felicity sensed some gritted teeth and suppressed retorts, but her stare was iron-clad and after a minute of tense silence, she knew she'd pulled their focus back to where it was needed.

"Okay," she said. "ORACLE, can you —"

The computers gave a deafening shriek. It rebounded through the speakers and rattled her teeth like feedback from a bad sound system.

But what came next was worse. A hundred thousand times worse.

"— did you truly think your city was safe?" said a voice.

The ghost at her back, death tapping on her shoulder.

The telltale _thud-thud_ of her heart was in her ears as Felicity turned, and stared at the flickering screens. The Arrow — the Flash — a muted explosion — the Canary — a ghostly howl — played again and again in an eerie repetition of chaos. There was no face to the voice, just the same disjointed reel of images from the night before, still being broadcast to the whole of Starling City.

But there didn't need to be. His voice — low as a whisper but knife-edged with mockery — was a thousand times more menacing than a face. Set against footage of them saving the city…

His message couldn't have been clearer.

"Do you truly believe that you can keep your city safe from me?" he asked, as a faint explosion crackled through the broadcast. "Did you truly believe that siding with cowards hiding behind their masks would protect you?"

"ORACLE — track him." Felicity was already typing, her hands flying across the keys in a race to keep up with her thoughts. "Ray, can you —"

"— coverage, got it." Ray was at the computers as well, his staccato almost fast enough to match her own. "He's hacked into every screen in Starling. Not just the news channels. Billboards, computers, phones — he's gone citywide."

"He's trying to draw our attention away from something," Oliver said instantly. "Felicity —"

"Already there," she said. "I checked the prison first. Iron Heights went Stone Age a while ago — too many unexplained hackings, long story — so that's one less thing to worry about. There's no unusual activity in the Starling National Bank servers, so it's not money."

"He's up to something," Amanda said. "Keep looking."

Felicity caught Oliver's eye. "You know, it hurts me that you have to ask," she responded, and saw a flicker of a smile — as terrible as everything was.

Diggle — who'd evidently seen it — shook his head. " _Later_ ," he said.

"Some of you are probably trying to guess what my purpose is," Damien continued, and she could hear the amusement in his voice. "I'll tell you. Your city has put its faith in a collection of damaged souls, the broken warriors from a war already lost, trying to sell you a lie — that they are anything _but_ dangerous, that they are wholly capable of protecting a city which is far beyond their abilities to save. Let us put that belief to the test, shall we?"

"Oh, shut _up_ ," Barry said, pressing his hands to his ears like Damien's voice was a chorus of jackhammers.

"There are seven trains currently about to pass through Starling Central Station," Damien continued, "and they're all going to collide because of a massive failure in their operating systems. Computers — such fragile things in the hands of incompetent fools."

"Felicity," said Oliver.

"I know — I know."

Damien was broadcasting citywide, but this was war between father and daughter. They both knew that she was the only one fast enough to stop him, and he was taking sadistic pleasure in testing her.

Like Amanda said, Felicity had limits.

But they sure as hell were _not_ going to be the ones Damien set for her.

"I'm in," Felicity said, to no one in particular. The transport network's security was a joke, and she fixed the malfunction with ease.

Child's play.

Anger burned in the pit of her stomach — Damien was still toying with her.

"Very _good_ ," Damien said, and Felicity knew he'd been watching. "It appears that your saviors are listening."

Felicity's skin prickled at the recognition, even though she knew her father couldn't see her. They were all in the game now, and it was time to make her move.

Cisco was staring at the screens. "Anyone else feeling the urge to stick a post-it over the cameras?" he asked. "Can he see us?"

"Not unless we hijack his frequency and turn it into the world's worst conference call," Ray answered. "Right?"

"Right." Felicity was standing very straight, fighting the urge to go after Damien with everything she had when she knew that the city came first.

She really hoped that her rewrite had reshuffled ORACLE's priorities. "ORACLE — Watchtower Protocol. Scan the city for any abnormalities. Power stations, subway, City Hall…if anything so much as _glitches_ , put out an alert. If you can't fix it, send it to us. Cisco, Ray, Amanda — I need your hands on this."

A pause. Even in a crisis, her brain couldn't assemble sentences that _didn't_ embarrass her. "I also need you to imagine I said that sentence differently."

" _Watchtower Protocol engaged_ ," ORACLE said, smoothly.

Cisco pulled up a chair, flexing his knuckles in front of a screen. "Gotcha. I get the easy-level stuff, right? Like the computer equivalent of whoopee cushions?"

"ORACLE has an appraisal of your abilities," Amanda said, watching the scan. "I'm sure you will."

"How do you manage to make everything sound like an insult?" Ray asked.

" _Focus_ ," Oliver interrupted, and the _do-not-mess-with-me_ undercurrent was enough to shut them up.

"Can you shut him down?" Lyla asked.

"Wait," Amanda said, as Felicity shook her head. Not because she couldn't, but because she and Amanda — for once — had the same thought.

"I've been running a trace since he started talking," Felicity's mind was racing again, every nerve humming with the possibilities. "He overplayed his hand. You can't stay on air and broadcast for that long without being close to Starling. He's trying to scare us into rolling over, but if we keep him on long enough, ORACLE can get us the coordinates."

It was a risky game, and Felicity knew it. She was betting on their ability to keep him busy, to meet him move for move, to delay him without endangering Starling City in the process.

Another rasp of static stopped them all short. _Next round_ , Felicity thought.

"Across the city, there is a power station — second-largest in the city, I believe — about to experience an unexpected overload. If it falls, and it will, the surrounding stations will all be at critical capacity. If another power station — say the largest — were to succumb to technical difficulties, the resulting surge would cripple your entire city's power grid. Your homes will be left in shadow, your trains will grind to a halt, and your city will plunge into darkness. What shall you do?"

Roy had evidently heard enough. "Shove it up your —"

ORACLE's alert cut him off. " _There appears to be a signaling failure at the Starling City Airport_ ," it reported. " _Fifteen inbound flights affected. Three more alerts pending_."

Felicity swore.

"Take the power stations," Ray said, already working. "I can handle the planes."

"Guys," Cisco said, frowning in confusion. "Transportation Department computers are glitching. I think he's…raising the bridges. Why is he raising the bridges?"

"Not just that." Diggle pointed at the map. "He's closing the tunnels. That's the one Slade's men tried to use, when they were —"

"—getting out of the city," Lyla finished, and they looked at each other.

It dawned on them, then. What Damien had been trying to do. Not embarrass them, or toss obstacles their way to prove a point. It'd been so he could tighten the screws, to raise the fences — to lock them in.

"Ah," Damien said. "Your so-called heroes will have noticed by now that I have sealed every tunnel and every bridge that leads out of your city. In a short while, your power grid will succumb, and your train stations, your airports will be closed to you. There is no way out of Starling City now."

" _Felicity._ " Oliver's whisper made a hard lump of panic rise in her throat as she fought to stop the onslaught. Two thousand access points, and he was attacking every single one, with a sizable head start to boot.

"He's shut down the offload units," Felicity said, as her attempts hit error after error. "He's blocking me. I can't disconnect the overloading stations — at this rate he's going he'll send a surge through the city and collapse the power grid — _argh_ —!"

The controls sparked without warning, and Felicity stumbled back into Oliver, holding her stinging palm. "Are you all right?" he asked, which really wasn't the main issue.

Felicity rushed back to the keyboard. " _Rude_ ," she breathed. "He's worse than the Clock King."

"I will wreak havoc in your streets, I will _destroy_ that which makes Starling City stand strong. My soldiers will flood your city and overturn your impostor sentinels. Your government will crumble, and your police will cower in this darkness of my making. I want each and _every_ one of you to watch, as your misguided Samaritans, your false gods — fail to stop me from decimating your homes. Come dawn, your city will fall."

"The first station's down!" Felicity said, her voice taut with nerves. "He's shutting me out from City Electric — I can't stop him —"

"It has begun, and it will not stop unless I have what I want. Your powerless protectors know what that is. But I have a request. A deal — for every citizen in Starling who wishes to survive into this new world, into our new order. Hunt down the man who calls himself the Arrow, his companions as well, and turn them in to your authorities, who I'm sure will know what they must do, unless you wish for your city to perish. You have until dawn."

"When the sun rises, and a white flag flies from the roof of your City Hall, I will know that you wish to live — because you have chosen to accept my terms. All I want is the end of this vigilante injustice, in exchange for your city's survival. Your choice — your homes — your lives."

" _Overload in 93% of the network,_ " ORACLE announced. " _Power failure_ —"

"— _no, no, no_ —"

The computers shrilled, and a long shadow swept across the room, as every screen, every light, and every machine in the room faltered. Nothing shut down, but everything seemed to grow a little quieter, a little dimmer.

As if a kind of darkness had descended on them too.

"We're on backup power," Amanda said, casting her eyes about the room.

"But the rest of the city?" Barry asked, but Felicity could tell he already knew the answer.

Ray looked away from the computers. " _Down_ ," he said, stunned by the magnitude of what Damien had done. "I'm sorry."

Oliver's hand was on her shoulder in wordless support as Felicity stared at the dark screens, showing exactly what the rest of the city was seeing — nothing. For a long moment, no one moved, as if they'd all been affected by the same death-knell, the one that rang for Starling City.

Children, families — civilians — looking at each other in the bewildering dark. Everything… _stopped,_ just like that. Government buildings in shutdown, and public servants with an impossible choice forced into their hands. Cars idling on bridges going nowhere, tunnels closed to suffocating darkness.

It was the end of Starling City.

At least to Damien Darhk.

Felicity's hands — flat on the table — balled into fists. Screw fear, screw giving up — she was angry. Not just smoke-out-of-her-ears mad, not just hitting-her-dad-across-the-face furious, but cold — hard — steel.

" _No_ ," she said, and raised her head. "ORACLE — hijack the broadcast. Open a channel here."

"Are you insane?" Ray said. "He'll see —"

"We just need him for another thirty seconds," she snapped. "Then we'll have a location."

Ray was _not_ convinced. "Oliver! We've risked enough already, _tell her_."

Oliver was at her side now, and Felicity turned, half-expecting him to fight her on this. " _Oliver,_ " she said simply.

Their eyes locked, and Felicity knew he'd understood. "John, stay with us. Everyone else — back away. He doesn't need to see you."

Felicity gripped his hand fiercely. _Thank you_ , she thought, and trusted him to understand.

Diggle came forward to stand by her too, laying his Glock on the steel surface. "Just in case," he said lightly, and Felicity touched his hand too, grateful for the reassurance.

The trace was still running when she opened the channel.

"Dad," she said, in a voice without the slightest tremor. "Can you hear me?"

For a moment, she thought it was all for nothing.

Then —

Felicity had been expecting to feel fear, seeing her father again, after what he'd done to them inside ARGUS HQ. It was instinct — to fear someone as dangerous as Damien Darhk. But she'd seen him since then, in her nightmares and in the pit.

Compared to the conjured ghost of who could stab her through her heart and collapse her world into shattered fragments, her father in reality seemed… _less_. Somehow.

" _Felicity_ ," said Damien, as if he was pleased to see her. "And here I was hoping the dismal performance I just observed wasn't yours."

"Better than underhanded," Diggle said, leaping immediately to Felicity's defence. "You're enjoying yourself, aren't you? You sick son of a bitch."

Damien's mouth curled into a sardonic smile as his eyes traveled slowly and deliberately from left to right, taking everything in.

"Why, if it isn't Mr. Queen and Mr. Diggle, my daughter's loyal bodyguards. What a pleasant surprise to see you all united — still."

" _Still_ ," Oliver repeated, with just the right amount of emphasis to make Damien's eyes harden at the defiance.

"I see you have a new lair," he remarked. "Such a shame there won't be a city left to protect with it."

"Starling's a lot stronger than you think," Felicity said. "It's survived worse than egomaniacal psychos like you."

"I admire your courage, Felicity," Damien said. "You've always been very loyal — foolishly so — but I'm sure even you can see that Starling City's luck has finally run out. With or without ORACLE, I can still launch the drones, and where better to send them than a city where its inhabitants can't leave? Of course, its accuracy might be rather short, but," he made a dismissive sound, "one can't expect too much from the first try."

An alert appeared at the bottom of the screen.

_Location found — Damien Darhk._

On another monitor, one Damien couldn't see, was a map. It was their first good look at the ship they'd fought so hard to find — anchored a few hours out from the Starling City coastline, in the open sea.

Felicity felt Oliver's fingers tighten around hers. "It doesn't have to be this way," she said, meeting her father's eyes again. "You don't have to do this."

"Indeed it doesn't," Damien agreed pleasantly. "All you have to do is hand ORACLE over to me — and Starling City will live to see the next dawn."

Felicity shook her head. "You know I can't do that."

Damien smiled, like he hadn't expected her to agree at all. "Then you do what you must — and so shall I."

Felicity didn't know why she reached for Diggle's gun, but she _did_ know what she wanted to do once she had it. "Fine," she said, releasing the safety behind her back. "But I'm only going to tell you this once, dad. I don't respond well to threats, and I unequivocally do _not_ do _surrender_. So if you want ORACLE so goddamn much —"

She raised the gun and pointed it straight at her father's face.

"— come and get it."

She shot out the camera without flinching, unceremoniously severing the call between herself and her father with a _lot_ of broken glass and sparks.

The fractured screen smoked, three gorgeous cracks spidering across the glass from the three times she'd pulled the trigger. It toppled over with a crash, leaving an empty space in the row of unscathed computers in front of them.

Felicity exhaled, loudly. "Probably shouldn't have done that," she said, even though she felt about ten times better for it. There was something surprisingly soothing about fake-shooting her dad in the face — like she'd gotten it out of her system.

Diggle leaned over the working computers to see the damage. "Not bad," he said approvingly, holding out his hand for the gun. "But remember to keep your elbow straight next time."

Oliver swept the glass chips from the keyboard. "Now what?" he asked, and Felicity silently blessed him for the level of inhuman composure he could exhibit in the face of impossible odds.

"Now," she said, "we move. I'm tired of being underestimated by Damien Darhk."

If they'd been anyone except them, Felicity would have apologized — for everything. But it _was_ them, and Oliver's quiet smile had nothing in it except pride.

Oliver nodded. "You heard her," he said, turning to the others. "Suit up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit just hit the faaaaaaan. Now if you excuse me, I'm going to curl up on the couch with my cat and a blanket and all of the Harry Potter movies.  
> Needless to say I adore it whenever Felicity shoots something.


	69. Be Brave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might possibly be the longest update I've ever written for Legacies. Happy Sunday!

Leaving, again.

Felicity's nails scraped soundlessly on the slick concrete when her hands balled themselves into fists. She barely made it into the empty training room before her knees gave out, and she collapsed against the wall, holding her sides like she was about to be sick.

They were leaving in fifteen minutes, which meant that Felicity had exactly fourteen to let herself fall apart, before she had to pull herself together and make things right.

And hopefully not throw up.

The lights were out, enveloping her in safe, thoughtless darkness. Felicity pushed her face into her knees and counted — but even the numbers managed to warp themselves into a recitation of everything that was going wrong.

Damien Darhk had shut down the city and trapped innocent people in a war zone.

She'd gone up against her father and she'd lost the round.

Even with ORACLE at her fingertips.

They were in this mess because of her.

"My fault," she whispered, curling deeper into herself. "All my fault."

The doors slid open with a burst of light, and Felicity instinctively raised her hand to shield her eyes from the unbearable brightness.

"Felicity?"

Felicity's throat tightened, because of course Oliver would be the one to find her. He had a sixth sense about these things, not unlike the uncanny instinct she had when it came to his guilt spirals. They knew each other too well to hide their personal lows, and this felt like a _low_ for Felicity.

Oliver didn't ask what she was doing; he didn't need to. He crouched by her side, looking intently into her face — which Felicity ducked, to avoid looking him in the eye.

"I'm fine, Oliver," she said. "I'll see you on the plane. I just…want to be by myself for a few minutes."

Oliver — unlike Felicity — appeared to give the request some thought. _Some_ , meaning the time it took for him to draw another breath.

He exhaled. "I'm not leaving," he said calmly.

Felicity went on resolutely avoiding his gaze. "Don't make me use my loud voice."

Instead of backing off, Oliver shifted to sit at her side, the leather in his suit creaking as he stretched out beside her. "You know I'd do anything you asked me to," he said, as if it was on the roster of unquestionable facts. "But I won't leave you by yourself."

"Why not?" she shot back.

"Would you leave me alone if I was like this?" he asked, exhibiting an irritatingly accurate memory for their shared history.

Felicity softened. "No," she whispered, because however grudging the admission, she couldn't lie, not to him.

So he stayed, and there they sat, side by side in complete darkness, their backs to the wall. Felicity let her head knock against a concrete surface she couldn't see and tilted her head back to the high ceiling, trying not to think about how it had reflected the sound of her and Oliver's laughter back at them. It seemed impossible now, the thought that a few hours ago they'd been in this room – that she'd been climbing on top of Oliver's back, teasing him while they laughed with each other.

"There are…seven hundred thousand people in Starling City right now," Felicity said, her voice shivering in the cold air. "A psycho just hacked every single one of their screens and told them to hunt all of us down in exchange for not destroying their homes, which would be super easy to ignore, if they weren't trapped – in a blacked-out city with a crime problem that redefines _chronic_."

Felicity's fist smacked her thigh with a muffled thud. "The whole city's shut down — no power, no way out," she said dully. "Innocent people are going to die, and it's because I couldn't stop my own dad from using my home as a testing ground…for a plan that's going to kill even _more_ people."

She laughed, even though it wasn't funny, even though it hurt her throat and came out as more of a cough than anything else.

"There are _seven hundred thousand_ human beings in Starling City," she repeated. "And not one of them deserves to die."

She was about to take her frustration out on her leg again when Oliver's hand wrapped around her wrist and gently — but firmly — pulled it back. Oliver wasn't wearing his gloves, and he clasped her cold fingers to his lips, blowing gently on them to ease the chill. The doors had closed long ago, and they were both sitting in darkness — but Felicity could somehow see and feel every inch of Oliver as he sat beside her, warming her hands with the breath from his lungs.

"I didn't want this," she admitted, lower than a whisper.

She'd turned towards him in the dark, and with a quiet creak, she knew Oliver was facing her too.

"I know," he said back. "I know you didn't."

Felicity chewed on her lip again, her thoughts lingering darkly on the way her father had beaten her, easily, at the one thing she was meant to be good at. She'd already lost – and they hadn't even come face to face yet, not really.

"What if I'm not…" she began, her face burning, "what if I'm not good enough to stop him?"

"Felicity." Oliver sounded serious now – as if he hadn't already been before. "You can't believe that."

Felicity tried to wrench her hands away, but Oliver refused to let her go. "He beat me in front of everyone," she said, the words thick and hot with shame. "You were there – you saw how _easy_ it was for him. I had ORACLE on my side and I still couldn't stop him from putting the whole of Starling City under lockdown."

"That's not what I saw," Oliver said. "I didn't see you lose. I saw you stand up to someone trying to hurt your home, I saw you making a choice no one should have to make and go up against your own father. I saw you use ORACLE – something Darhk created to hurt people – to try and save them."

" _Try_ ," Felicity repeated. "Look how that turned out."

"It's not over," Oliver answered, just as stubbornly. "Darhk's intelligent, but so are you. The only reason he caught you off guard is because in no world – no universe – would you ever use people the same way your father does. He plays them as pawns — you see them as people. Complex, difficult, _good_ people. This guilt you're feeling is enough — more than enough — to set you apart from Damien Darhk, and this –" he pressed firmly on her heartbeat "—this heart is one of the many reasons why Damien Darhk can't, and won't beat you."

Felicity lowered her head. "But how do you know?" she asked.

"Because you're the smartest person I've ever met," he said, slow and careful. "Because you've saved my life…more times than I can count. Because you've gotten me – all of us – this far. Because I love you and I trust you…and because I believe in you."

The last thing he said as if it was the simplest thing in the world, and it was – oh, it was. God knew she'd thought it, even when she was just the IT girl and he was the CEO's son bringing her weird requests and even weirder excuses, and later, each time she watched him put on the mask and leave the Foundry to save Starling City.

The times she'd knelt in front of him and whispered it to his unwilling ears, and he'd looked at her like it was the first time anyone had ever put their trust in him. But it was enough – it'd always been enough – to get him to fight back. When Oliver Queen was at his lowest, she'd always known what to do, to get him to hope again. Who could have guessed that now, with everything turned on its head – he'd be the one saying it back to her?

Felicity shut her eyes and breathed in deep, because she could feel the ferocity behind his words, washing over her like heat from a blazing sun. It _was_ simple, this trust between them – she'd just needed to hear it from him. She leaned on Oliver with a shaky nod, and felt his arm encircle her shoulders.

"So you're giving the pep talks now," she said, with a pretend-shudder. "It really is the End of Days."

Oliver kissed her forehead in the dark. "Had to happen sometime."

Felicity smiled, but it faded as she became thoughtful again. "Do you remember that night – when we were at my place, looking at photos of Connor?" she asked, very quietly. "My mom called while we were…" she broke off with a stifled laugh, partly from shyness, partly from remembering her frantic scramble to get some clothes on before answering the phone.

"I remember," Oliver's voice was uneven with suppressed amusement. "It wasn't the first time you forgave me for being stupid, but it was the first time I called you Felicity Queen."

Felicity managed to find Oliver's hand in the dark again, and ran her thumb across his wedding ring. "And I said that you had no idea what you were marrying into."

There was a pause, broken only by the sound of their breathing. He was waiting for her to say it, and Felicity was steeling herself to ask.

"I know it's a cliché that dads don't like their son-in-laws, but outing your vigilante identity and blowing up your second home really gives new meaning to the phrase _know what you're marrying into_."

"Felicity —" Oliver began, but she pressed on, because she needed to know.

"Do you regret it?" she said, finally. "I mean — I had no idea my dad would come back as a super-villain, but if you had a chance…would you maybe – _not_ — pick the girl with the dad who redefines having a hostile father-in-law? Would you —"

The rest of the sentence escaped her when Oliver moved. All of a sudden, she felt the rasp of his cheek against hers, the callused warmth of his hands on her face, thumbs stroking the corners of her mouth before he…

_Ah._

With surprising grace and inexplicable surety – given the fact that they were both in pitch-black darkness – Oliver kissed her, and it was like a flare of white light had gone off behind Felicity's closed eyes. It wasn't the first time he'd stopped her words with a kiss, but unlike the first – when it was to stop her from ending things between them – he kissed her now to sear away any traces of doubt that he still wanted her, a life together, and anything that came after.

Felicity's head was spinning when they finally broke off for air, but she'd never felt more steadied in her entire life. Oliver pressed his forehead to hers, breathing hard like he'd been running full-tilt. "No," he answered. "No regrets."

Felicity's face broke into a real smile, her heart warm and thrumming inside her chest. She felt like she was watching the first snow of her life, she felt like she was about to rise off the ground, and more than anything she felt like she would have married him on the spot – if it were an option.

"Me neither," she whispered, and kissed him again, because – for the moment, at least – it was enough, more than enough to know that given the chance, neither of them would have had things any other way.

* * *

The hangar echoed with the thuds and drags of pre-takeoff moving. Felicity — whose clumsiness/lack of upper body strength had precluded her from most of the heavy-lifting — stood just at the bottom of the sloping doors and tightened the bag strap cutting across her chest, making sure that her tablet was snug and dry inside the waterproof pouch behind her back, along with the thumb-sized drive containing an uplink to ORACLE.

"That's all you're bringing?" Diggle asked, stopping in front of her with a rucksack over one shoulder and a massive duffel in his hand.

Felicity had to smile at the huge contrast between her carry-on and everyone else's. Thea, Roy, and Oliver all had bags of arrows and cases of various pointy paraphernalia, which they were in the process of hauling into the plane's cargo hold.

Which made her look severely underprepared, to say the least.

"Unfortunately, my greatest weapon is the size of a magazine," she said, giving the pouch a loving pat.

Diggle snorted. "I think you're forgetting this," he said, tapping the side of her head. "That computer's only as good as its owner."

Felicity tried to smile as she rubbed the side of her head. "Thanks for the vote of confidence," she said, even though she was still sagging a little from the quote- _dismal_ -unquote performance back up in control.

"Hey." Diggle's broad hand was on her shoulder now, and he stooped a little to look her in the eye. "You did everything you could back there, and no one here thinks any different — so don't beat yourself up about it, okay?"

Felicity breathed out slowly. "Oliver kinda beat you to the punch there," she said, with a faint smile. "Gave me the whole _I-believe-in-you_ speech. Suffice it to say that it was _very_ unnerving, Oliver being the optimistic one."

Diggle nodded, looking unsurprised. "Good. When the two of you finally tie the knot and settle down, you'll figure out that there's no such thing as set roles in a marriage. You lean on him as much as he leans on you — neither of you are always going to be the one giving the advice."

Felicity shuddered in mock-horror, and Diggle laughed, rooting around in his bag for something.

"Which reminds me," he said, and held something out to her in the palm of his hand. "For you."

Felicity looked down. It was a handgun, exact make and model of the one Diggle had taught her with — the kind she was eternally borrowing off him when she needed to point a gun in someone's face.

"I figure you can handle yourself with a gun," he explained. "Makes my life easier if I knew you had one on you — means I don't have to carry spares."

Felicity shot him a look of pure skepticism. "You _always_ carry spares," she said, but she took the gun, weighing it in her hand. "Thanks, Dig. But maybe we shouldn't tell Oliver that you gave me this – like, _ever_. I'm still not sure he's on board with the whole bang-bang thing."

Diggle laughed at her use of the air quotes. "When the both of you are going to stop being oblivious, I'll never know, but trust me on this, Felicity – judging from the way Oliver was looking at you with a gun in your hand, I'd say he's pretty on board with the – uh – _bang-bang thing_."

Felicity blushed and looked around immediately for Oliver, which only made Diggle laugh more. She swatted him for teasing her, but ended up sliding her hand into the crook of his elbow and kissing him on the cheek.

"Thank you, John," she said, and she didn't just mean the gun. It wasn't just about fake-shooting her dad in the face (as _amazingly_ satisfying as that had felt), it was about not being the one who always got saved.

It was about not being a burden. It was about fighting back. It was about going into the field and knowing — however unlikely the chances — that if push came to shove, she'd be able to protect Oliver too.

"You know, I still think of myself as Oliver's bodyguard," Diggle said. "He's my brother, he's my best friend, and he could still kick my ass on an off-day, but I'd do anything to protect him — and I know he'd do the same for me."

"Of course, John," Felicity said, rubbing his arm in reassurance. "Oliver's never gone into the field without you."

Diggle looked up with a quiet smile. "I used to worry about him — always on his own, risking his neck for stupid things he shouldn't even be doing alone and trying to patch himself up with one hand after getting hurt. But for a while now, he's had you to look out for him, and I can't believe it's taken me this long to say it — but I couldn't be happier that he does."

Felicity was momentarily torn between solemnity and laughter. "John," she said, incredulously, "are you giving me your blessing to marry your best friend?"

Diggle shook his head and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. " _Thanking_ you for saying yes to marrying his best friend," he corrected. "You have no idea what you've signed up for, but I know you'll make sure that idiot lives to a ripe old age, and that he'll be ridiculously — _annoyingly_ — happy the whole time."

Felicity laughed for real, and she stood on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around Diggle's neck. "Thank you, John," she whispered. "I promise."

* * *

The jet's engines signaled that they were ready for takeoff with a long, steady whine. A breeze swept across the back of Oliver's neck, tugging at his hood, but Amanda appeared oblivious to the wind, turning her head to survey them all with her inscrutable dark eyes.

"Always a pleasure, Amanda," Diggle said, exhibiting his trademark ability to sound perfectly courteous while making it clear that he meant absolutely none of it.

Amanda wore an amused smile as they shook hands. "Likewise, Mr. Diggle. Best of luck to you and Agent Michaels."

The non-committal noise Diggle gave in response made Oliver bite back a smile. "Amanda," he said, extending a hand to her as well.

Amanda's grip was rigidly unyielding and curiously cold to the touch, like she had liquid steel in her veins instead of blood. "What, no last words?" she asked, when Oliver remained silent. "Seeing as you might shortly be sacrificing your life for home and country, I'd have expected something vaguely hostile."

Felicity made an indignant sound. " _Not_ funny."

Oliver – who was more used to Amanda's acerbic wit than Felicity – slipped his hand to the small of her back in a silent gesture of reassurance. "We know each other too well for that," he answered. "But I hope you remember your end of the bargain. We take Darhk down, and –"

"— you and your friends receive official pardons. Yes, yes, I'm not likely to forget, am I?" Amanda's gaze flicked deliberately towards Felicity. "That, and other things."

Felicity rolled her eyes. "Subtle."

Oliver wondered if there were more deals she'd struck on the side, but he knew better than to ask in front of Amanda. She was staying behind to monitor the mission from a distance, something she was well capable of doing from her ARGUS days, while – more prominently – acting as a failsafe against Damien Darhk capturing both executors of ORACLE.

Amanda's eyes gleamed as if she could tell what he was thinking. "It'd be a lot safer if both Oracles were out of his reach," she said. "I understand Agent Michaels is in a somewhat delicate condition – she could stay behind too."

Diggle laughed shortly. "You try telling that to Lyla," he said, with a shake of his head. "She's already not happy that I'm asking her to stay on board the plane with our daughter instead of storming the ship alongside the rest of us. Tell her she has to stay clear of the action and she'll take out an eye."

Amanda raised an eyebrow at Oliver, who lifted his shoulders with a faint smile. "I've learned a long time ago that telling Felicity what to do doesn't end well," he said, and was rewarded by Felicity standing on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

"Smart man," she murmured.

"Good to know the women run things around here," Amanda remarked, extending her hand with a glimmer of amusement. "You've certainly got them well-trained, Miss Smoak."

They shook hands. "Disregarding the _not-for-our-benefit_ snark that just went into that sentence – thanks for noticing," Felicity said. "Unfortunately, they're my boys — you're going to have to get your own."

Amanda let go with a genuine smile, one of the few Oliver had ever seen cross her face. It reminded him of the way Nyssa's expression softened when she saw Felicity – rare, but possible because of the innate quality Felicity possessed, the capability of drawing genuine emotion from the unlikeliest of individuals.

"I'm aware that I brought all of you here in an abrupt fashion, but I do thank you for considering my proposal. Needless to say you're all aware that what happens tonight will determine the road going forward – into the shadows, or into the light."

Amanda's voice was characteristically dispassionate, like she wasn't listing the stakes, everything hanging in the balance.

"People will hate you, people will call you murderers, and hypocrites, and liars," she continued. "But they'll also call you brave, selfless, and extraordinary. They'll know you as people who went above and beyond what is expected of the civilian bystander. They'll know you as people who wanted to make a difference with what they had. They'll know you as heroes. _That_ – Mr. Queen, Miss Smoak, and Mr. Diggle – will be your legacy. Goodbye, and good luck, to all of you."

"Goodbye, Amanda," Felicity said.

Diggle nodded, and turned to walk up the ramp with Felicity. Oliver stood where he was, watching Amanda as the wind around them began to rise. There was a part of him that still didn't entirely trust her, and knew it was right not to. But Oliver knew threats had never worked on Amanda, and the only leverage he possessed was conditional.

"You know, in all my lifetimes, I'll never understand what you did to deserve that woman," Amanda said.

It was as if she'd read his mind, and given him the only assurance he needed. She would protect Felicity the best she could, and that entailed keeping up her end of the deal.

It was with a ghost of a smile that Oliver replied: "I know," he said, and boarded the plane without a backward glance.

The doors lifted, cutting off the last glimpse of Amanda standing in the empty hangar, her hand raised in farewell. They rose smoothly through the air until they passed through the unseen opening in the ceiling, and turned towards their destination.

Felicity – who'd been waiting for him – rested her chin on his shoulder. "It all ends tonight," she said.

Oliver nodded, and their hands joined. "It all ends tonight."

* * *

Felicity's face and hands were a ghostly blue as she stared down at the glass table at the satellite images of the surveillance ship. The only blueprints available were the originals Damien had submitted for Council approval, which she'd dug out of the decimated mess that was the ARGUS mainframe (so many mental apologies to Lyla for that one).

"How much guessing are we actually going to need, though?" Cisco said, around the marker clamped between his teeth. "These look pretty detailed to me."

Felicity put an _X_ on the north deck to mark their targeted landing zone. "Said design specs also listed the drones as _surveillance-only_ , so I'm not setting much store by them being one-hundred-percent forthcoming."

"Bah," Cisco said. "Super-villains."

"You know, you could have let ORACLE take over piloting controls," Felicity said reproachfully, thinking about Lyla in the pilot's seat. "I'm pretty sure there's something about pregnant women not flying planes in the handbook."

"Technically," Ray interrupted, "I'm the only one with an actual pilot's license, and Cisco only let me steer for, like, forty percent of the time."

Cisco jabbed the marker at Ray. " _Forty-five_ – there was that stretch over the North China Sea when I went for a quick latte."

"My mistake. That's so much more legal," Ray said cheerily. "BTW, anyone else a little worried about the forecast? _Thunderstorms_ aren't exactly ideal weather conditions for jumping out of planes."

"We'll manage," Oliver said, appearing soundlessly behind Felicity. "I've had worse."

"Oh good." Felicity caught Ray shooting her a surreptitious glance, as if to gauge her reaction to the flippant dismissal of less-than-ideal weather.

But most of Felicity's energy was already devoted to not thinking about the high altitudes and the resulting nausea due to her fear of heights. "He's had worse," she agreed, and made a final mark on the map. "Okay – let's go over everything one more time."

"I go in first with stealth mode on," Ray recited, and pointed at the South deck. "We know from surveillance that it's the least heavily guarded – so I'll make my landing and deploy the miniaturization function on my suit."

"Which has a ninety-eight percent chance of working," Cisco added.

"Thank you, Cisco. Then I'll release these –" Ray indicated a few metal spheres the size of golf balls "—which will scan and render the ship's layout so we won't be going in blind. While they're doing that, I'll be really quiet and pretend I don't exist, until they tell me where the security room is. I'll get there, plug Felicity's virus into the mainframe…"

"And I'll take care of the rest," Felicity finished, with a thumbs up. "Let's just hope this plan goes better than the last one."

"What _last one_?" Barry said. "We never have a plan."

The look on Oliver and Diggle's faces didn't dispute the fact. "Okay, technically we did," Felicity reminded them, "when me and Dig snuck into the bunker last year."

"Which was swiftly derailed when Nyssa al Ghul decided to shoot up her dad's town hall meeting of assassins," Diggle said, rubbing his shoulder. "Still have the scars from that one."

Ray – who'd replaced Thea as the newbie to all of their shenanigans – looked very reassured. "So what you're saying is – there's a plan, but we probably won't end up using it."

"Gold star, Super-Suit," Roy said. "When all hell breaks loose, we tend to improvise."

"On _that_ reassuring note," Felicity interrupted. "Anyone heard from Sara and Nyssa?"

"They went ahead to scout the city," Thea said. "So far, things are holding up. The SCPD declared a curfew and that's keeping people indoors. There's some reports of B&Es by lowlifes trying to take advantage of the power outage, but the SCPD's handling that. The Royal Flush Gang and the Rogues being out of commission made things easier."

"You're welcome, Starling City," Roy said, under his breath.

"Did they send us a rendezvous location?" Oliver asked.

"Mm-hm," Thea said, glancing out the window. "We're almost there."

Felicity crossed over to the window, scanning the city sprawled beneath a darkening sky. Starling City during a blackout was an unnerving stretch of unbroken shadow, scattered here and there with the dim orange glow of emergency power, mostly in the city center. Dying sunlight streaked the navy blue clouds like broken veins, vanishing rapidly behind the storm rolling in from the sea.

"Where are we going?" she asked, as they drew nearer — dangerously near — to the heart of the city.

"Yeah," Diggle said, sounding suspiciously unfazed, "about that."

Oliver tensed, and in a second, Felicity saw why. The stone-and-marble silhouette was unmistakable – and also insanely out-of-character for a location chosen by two experienced assassins.

Felicity stared. "Is that the _courthouse_?" she said, and hesitated, because she could just make out a third person in the heinous light. "I think…there's someone with them."

Oliver leaned closer to the glass, frowning in confusion. "It's Captain Lance," he said.

Felicity gripped Oliver's arm to steady herself, because there was someone else with them. Someone who didn't seem to be capable of standing still, almost as if…

 _She_ was wearing impractically high shoes.

When the gusting wind forced the last not-so-stranger to brush a few straying blonde curls from her face, Felicity was sure.

" _Mom?_ " she croaked.

* * *

An eerie quiet had descended over in the city center, emptied of passing cars and the constant hum of streetlights. Everything looked scarcely recognizable, and even the distinctive marble dome crowning the Starling City Courthouse looked oddly unreal, streaked with patchy shadows from the uneven lighting.

Sara's hair gleamed silver under the glow of the emergency floodlights, forming a halo around her face in the night wind. Beside her — almost blending completely into shadow — was Nyssa, her bow still half-raised from shooting the signaling arrow into the sky.

Felicity caught Oliver's hand as the bay doors parted with a blast of rushing air. Her heart was hammering in her chest, because _oh god_ she did not have the energy to deal with both her parents — one being a super-villain bent on destroying her home, the other being a Vegas cocktail waitress who had, until very recently, been completely unaware that her daughter had a nocturnal habit of fighting crime.

To be painfully honest, Felicity wasn't sure which confrontation scared her more.

Felicity knew her friends were all regarding her with the kind of expression reserved for a dangerous escaped zoo animal, but she only had eyes for Oliver, because he of all people understood what she was feeling.

The thought of her mom being in Starling was an adrenaline-shot of worry, because it was a danger zone her mother had no business being near, and a mind-numbing dose of nerves, because if she'd been in Starling for the broadcast — she knew.

 _Everything_.

"I can't do this," she said, heavily suppressing the urge to ralph over the side. "What if she…what if she doesn't —?"

Oliver pulled her aside, his steady hands contrasting sharply with the frantically thudding pulse in her neck. "Felicity," he said, in a voice meant only for her ears, "she's your mother."

"She's my _mother_ ," Felicity agreed, because — as stupid as it sounded — everything Damien had said to her after he'd found out was running through her head. He'd called her a criminal and a liar, and not that it was a huge loss, thrown in the word _disappointed_ to boot.

Felicity couldn't have cared any less about disappointing him, but it wasn't the same with Donna. Her mother had raised her, singlehandedly navigating all the late shifts and school runs to make sure that her daughter — a child who was an ever-present, tangible reminder of a husband and father who'd left them both — would turn out all right.

As different as they were, Donna was still the one who knew Felicity the best. She always would, and Felicity couldn't bear to disappoint her.

"What if she hates me for lying to her? What if she —?"

Oliver was already shaking his head, taking her face in his hands. "Hey," he said, very softly. "Take a deep breath."

Felicity did, and she still felt like she was about to pass out.

"You lied to her in order to protect her," he said. "And I _promise_ you, if it didn't mean anything to your mother, she wouldn't have flown all the way back to Starling."

"Moira knew," Felicity whispered. "About the Arrow."

"She did," Oliver agreed. "The first thing she did was tell me how proud she was of who I'd chosen to be — and my biggest regret was that I never told her sooner."

He stroked her cheek with one hand, steadying her with the other. "Are you ready?"

Felicity jerked her head in a nod, and stood at the edge with him. The part of her that was terrified of jumping from anything, period, told her that it was a stupid idea. But the part of her that trusted Oliver more than anyone else in the world knew it was a short drop, and an even surer landing with him at her side.

"I'm here," he murmured. "Three — two —"

Felicity gritted her teeth.

" _One_."

She jumped before she could hesitate, and the breath rushed out from her lungs when they hit the stone with a thud.

The shock tingled the soles of her feet, but Felicity straightened up almost immediately, her thoughts racing at a mile a minute as she faced her mother, with nothing but the truth to give. In her mind's eye, she saw herself — disheveled, guilty, and terrified of the uncertain silence that swelled between mother and daughter, pushing them further apart by the second.

No, that wasn't right. As much as Felicity had reasons to feel guilty, her unmasked self — standing with her friends (albeit in variations of leather and Kevlar) — was nothing to apologize for. Because they had all given sweat, blood, and tears in service of their home, working as hard as they could with whatever they had to save their city, and Felicity had no doubts whatsoever that the company she kept fell squarely into the category of _hero_.

Felicity Smoak, hacker with hero aspirations — that sounded pretty good to her. She just hoped it would be enough for her mother.

Was it?

Donna stood beside Quentin, her hands over her mouth as she took in the sight of her daughter, and Felicity looked her in the eye for what felt like the first time.

"Hi mom," she said, in the smallest of voices.

Donna lowered her hands, and Felicity saw that her lips, smudged bright pink, were slightly parted, even though she hadn't made a single sound.

And for one long, excruciating moment, it seemed like she never would.

Then she rushed forward with a strangled sob and flung her arms around her only daughter.

"Oh, my baby girl," she breathed, holding Felicity tight. "You've been so brave."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I've taken your fic recs to heart and I both hate you/love you right now for introducing me to some fantastic stories. The Legacy series by Ash818 is what I've reading now, and OH MY GOD can I just say that Jonathan Queen is the most sarcastic and endearing little shit and I'm dying from how much I adore him as a narrator.
> 
> Ah-maa-zing did it again with a first date fic for Olicity (S4, NOT the first date that got blown up) and it is all kinds of cute. Check out First Dates by Ah-maa-zing, guys.
> 
> Side note: I've been on my own a lot this week and I'm pretty sure a human being is not meant to eat this many chicken burrito bowls from Avocado Tree (Beijing equivalent of Chipotle). Eh, well.
> 
> WHERE IS THAT MOTHERFREAKING S4 PROMO?! I swear to God if one more Arrow-related person tweets about how the trailer is badass/going to blow minds WITHOUT actually showing us said trailer, I am going to cut something.
> 
> Also, you guys seem to be taking Felicity with a gun really well. Definitely better than this story's Oliver.


	70. Finally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At a certain point in this chapter, you'll want to start listening to Dream by Priscilla Ahn. Do it, do it, do it. I had it on repeat while writing this.

Felicity almost staggered under the unexpected weight of her mother's embrace, too stunned to do anything except pat Donna feebly on the back. She was still reeling from the fact that her mother was only rocking her gently from side to side, instead of doing the _mom_ thing, which was to scream at her for lying and/or taking stupid risks with her life.

"How did you —?"

"—find out?" said Donna. "I saw the broadcast, sweetie. I was in the police precinct with Quentin when the screens started going haywire, with the flickering and the _voice_ …I mean, I thought it was some kind of sick joke — some _nightmare_ — because it was your father. I hadn't heard his voice in almost twenty years and there it was…saying all those _awful_ things. Oh, I was so worried."

Donna visibly fought back a shudder, but she smoothed Felicity's hair away from her cheeks with nothing but concern in her eyes. "Your dad's back in town, isn't he?" she said, solemnly. "He's been causing trouble for you — first your birthday, now this?"

Felicity nodded. "I knew if I told you he was back, you wouldn't get out of Starling, and it wasn't safe. I'm not sorry for that, but I'm sorry I never told you about…all of this."

There was a flinty edge to Donna's smile as she calmly tucked a loose lock of hair behind Felicity's ear. It was a look Felicity had seen shortly before her mom had given her psycho ex-boyfriend the downright ballsiest threat she'd ever seen someone make, _period_ — not just while zip-tied to a chair with fully functional AK-47s directed at her face.

"Honey, if I'd known that your father was the one who busted your birthday party with a group of armed thugs and hauled you out of a window to threaten you with God-knows-what, I wouldn't have left Starling at all — I would have hunted him down myself and given him twelve good reasons why hurting you both now and back then was the _worst_ idea of his life."

" _Whoa_ ," someone said. It sounded vaguely like Cisco.

It was Felicity's turn to surprise Donna by giving her a hug for real. She buried her face in Donna's blonde curls, feathery-soft and hairspray-scented — one of the earliest memories in her Vegas childhood.

Donna stroked the back of her head with a watery smile. "So are you gonna introduce me to all your friends?" she asked. "Who's the nice young man in the green leather?"

Felicity almost inhaled some of Donna's hair when she laughed. "Mom," she said. "You know Oliver. He's the Arrow, and I've been his partner since…"

" _Forever_ ," Donna suggested, and held out her hand with a twinkle in her eye. "Nice to finally meet you, Oliver."

Even in the Arrow suit, Oliver could still do a decent rendition of his best future-son-in-law smile. "Very nice to meet you, Ms. Smoak."

"Oh, please," she answered, swatting him on the arm. "Call me Donna."

" _Oh god,_ " Felicity said, even though it was a huge relief to know that the semi-inappropriate flirting — classic sign of relative normalcy — was back in play.

Donna beamed all the way through the repeated introductions (she'd already met Sara and Nyssa and seemed very flustered by the latter's accent), and when Felicity had finished, she made a thoughtful _hm_.

"Quentin wasn't fibbing when he said you guys were pretty bad at the cover stories," she said, with her arm around Felicity's shoulders. "Didn't I see all of you at my daughter's birthday party two weeks ago?"

Lance shook his head in exasperation. "I told you. Anyone with half a brain could guess. There's the bodyguard, the two science geeks, Abercrombie, Robin Hoods red and green, Bart Allen, Mr. Ray Palmer — _ah_ , you must be the tin can man — and _you_."

His characteristic glare lost some of its fierceness when it alighted on Felicity. "You," he repeated, and sighed. "C'mere."

Felicity was honestly taken aback when he hugged her, mostly because she'd always thought of Lance as more of a head-ruffler and tough-love kind of guy. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been hugged by her father, but this felt pretty close to what it was supposed to be like — down to the loss of words and the blurring in her eyes that made her blink rapidly to clear them.

Barry coughed in the background. "Um, it's Barry," he said. "Barry Allen. You've met me — three times now. Wasn't hit by a bus. Hit by lightning, just to be — _ow_ —"

Someone had elbowed him, probably Caitlin.

"Oh, he's a hugger now," Donna said, watching the scene with an unmistakable note of pride in her voice.

"What's this for?" Felicity asked, her voice scratchy.

"It's a _sorry_ and a _thank you_ ," Lance answered. "Thank you for what you've done, and sorry I shot at your fiancé a couple of years ago. In my defense, he didn't tell me he was moonlighting as Robin Hood's ghost."

Felicity's laugh was an embarrassing cross between a snort and a gurgle. "God — it sounds terrible when you say it like that."

"S'why I said it." Lance cleared his throat and looked over Felicity's head at Oliver. "You gonna make me come over there?"

Now _everyone_ looked surprised, but no one more so than Oliver himself. Lance still ended up having to semi-go-over-there, while Felicity compensated for Oliver's underdeveloped emotional responses by tugging on his hand to get him closer.

Sara nudged Thea behind Oliver's back. "Did you ever think we'd see the day?" she asked.

Thea shook her head, keeping an admirably straight face. "I thought the day your dad hugged Oliver would be the day he turned him into a eunuch," she said, demonstrating a hand gesture that looked remarkably like a gut-stabbing.

Lance released Oliver with a pat on the back. "You're all good kids," he said, as Sara slipped a hand into the crook of his arm. "I'm glad we're doing this."

Felicity blinked. "Doing what?"

Donna turned to Thea. "You didn't tell them?"

Not for the first time, the only person who seemed to find it all strange was Oliver. They shot each other quizzical looks, at which point Felicity had a sudden thought.

"Speaking of," she said, glancing at her mother. "Mom — and don't get me wrong, I'm really happy to see you — but how are you here right now? The airports are all down because dad shut off the power. The only way you'd be here right now is if —"

"—I've been here since yesterday," Donna said innocently. "Tonight was supposed to be a surprise."

"What surprise?" Oliver said, frowning now.

"Oh, how _slow_ ," Nyssa muttered, tapping her fingers on the hilt of her sword.

With a sigh, Thea was the one who jumped on the figurative grenade. She raised her hands — a cross between _whoa there_ , and _ta-dah_ — as she stepped towards her brother. "Don't flip out," she said to the both of them, "but we wanted to make sure Felicity's mom was here so she wouldn't miss it."

Felicity was getting tired of all the _its_ and _this_ -s. "Miss _what_?" she said, a little more irritated now.

"Your wedding," Roy said, startling Felicity with the two least likely words she'd ever thought would come from his mouth.

Thea confirmed this with a nod, probably because the happy couple in question (Felicity still hadn't quite wrapped her head around that one) had identical expressions of _excuse-me-what?_ on their faces. "You guys are getting married on the roof of the courthouse…right now," she said. " _Surprise_."

* * *

For the longest moment, nobody spoke, and only the low rumble of thunder seemed to shake everyone out of the unintentional pause.

"Married," Felicity repeated, dubiousness radiating from the single word. "As in…?"

"You and my brother?" Thea answered. "You know, the guy you've been engaged to for the better part of six months? I mean, the original plan was City Hall, but given the circumstances, we thought it might be rubbing it in everyone's faces a little, so…"

Oliver raised his eyebrows. "Given our current standing with the law, the courthouse was a reasonable alternative," he said, very dryly.

His statement set off a volley of nervous looks between their friends and family, as if nobody had anticipated that he might not be on board with the idea of wasting the city's valuable time on something as personal as his wedding.

"Yeah," Felicity agreed, moving to stand by him. " _Uh-oh_. Of course we can't stay. Sunrise is in twelve hours, and we still have a ship to take down."

"Wait," said Donna, looking confused. " _Ship?_ "

"Dad's evil plan," Felicity explained. "Long, _long_ story. Suffice it to say, he's planning something very not-nice with computers, and it's our job to stop him before Starling City becomes a playground for his zombie army — figuratively speaking. He doesn't actually have zombies. Believe it or not, an army of undead would be easier to handle than this."

Donna blinked. "Okay, so what you're saying is — it's going to be dangerous. Some of you might get hurt, or _worse_ , and you're not going to get married because you're in a hurry to fly out and do your hero thing."

"There's no time, Donna," Oliver said, and Felicity gave him a nod in agreement. "Felicity and I can wait, but the city —"

"—is getting enough from you already," Donna interrupted, with surprising stubbornness. "You're already risking everything to save it. What's one hour more — just so you and the woman you love can get married? Everyone here wants to make one happy memory before you all go to war, so why _don't_ you?"

" _Because_ ," Felicity said, her hands raised in frustration, "it's selfish. The whole city's going to hell in front of us, we can't just hit _pause_ and have a quickie wedding."

"Right," Diggle said sarcastically, "because it's so different from getting married on an ATV in the middle of the Registan desert."

Lyla shared a smile with her husband. "We've seen a lot of war in our lives, and believe me, a happy moment just for you can make all the difference in the world."

"She's right," said Thea. "Blackout or not, we've been planning this — from the _second_ you guys said we were coming back to Starling. I know you didn't want a fancy wedding, and this is as simple as simple _gets_. Friends and family on the courthouse roof, and your best friend officiating the wedding."

Oliver and Felicity exchanged nonplussed looks. "We have a best friend that's ordained?" she asked.

Diggle waved his hand. "If it weren't for Darhk, the both of you would be married three times over by now. The idea was — and still is — we're not letting him take this one away from you too."

" _Oh_ ," Felicity said, a hand over her mouth. "John, that's really…that's really sweet of you. Thea, John — Oliver and I appreciate everything you've done, all of you —"

"—and I _told_ you they'd take it well —" Roy said, in an undertone.

Oliver shot him a reprimanding glare. "But we're not going through with this," he said, pointedly. "We all have a mission, and we can't waste any more time."

Felicity nodded, and reached for her mother. "Mom, I'm sorry that you had to fly all the way out for this, but we can't stay."

Donna lifted her head. "Can't you?" she said. "Oh, sweetie. You've always been about work, work, work — I guess I shouldn't be surprised that when it comes to doing the hero _thing_ …" She sighed. "You can't even make time for your own wedding."

" _Mom_ ," Felicity said. "Not here."

Donna could look surprisingly like Felicity when she was disagreeing with something. "No, Felicity," she insisted. " _Here_. Because it's for Oliver too. I'm going to be his mother-in-law, for God's sakes — it's about time he gets used to my rants. So the two of you are going to stand _right_ there and listen to me."

It was quite easily one of the stranger experiences of Oliver's life, taking time out of a mission because someone wanted to give him a lecture. Even when they were at odds, Felicity had always designated the talk for _later_. It was testament to Donna's ability to put her foot down that the only thing he and Felicity could do was raise their eyebrows at each other.

"The hardest word that any person ever says is _almost_ ," Donna began. "You _almost_ had it, you _almost_ came through, you _almost_ lived happily ever after. Every one of those breaks the heart, just a little. Granted, I'm new to this whole thing, but even I can see it's worse for you two, because you don't even know if you're coming back. And somehow you're okay with this — _your_ _wedding_ — becoming another _almost_. When you're young, you think you have all the time in the world, but with what you guys do…that's not really true, is it?"

There was a strange glow in her blue eyes — so like Felicity's — holding in them a sheer earnestness that he'd seen so many times from her daughter, the kind that had an unfailing way of making him listen.

And he did.

Oliver listened to a mother who knew her daughter well enough to be sure that she couldn't change her mind about the war. He watched a mother marching up to the possibility that her daughter might get seriously hurt — or worse — and meeting it head-on, completely, utterly uncompromising, despite the fact that she'd only just found out. He heard a mother who wanted to send her only daughter off to war with a spark of light in her heart — because it could make all the difference in the world.

"I know it's not perfect — no flowers, no cake, no guest list with more strangers than actual friends — but I've seen you two together and I know that stuff doesn't matter to you, so what's the _real_ holdup?" Donna asked, and looked him right in the eye.

_Today, tomorrow, or the day after?_

_We're always proposing to each other — you'd think we'd be married by now._

_It's not the glass cases, or the computers, or the training space…it's the people I care about. You, my family, my friends. That's all there is._

_All there is._

Oliver turned to Felicity. "Let's," he said, and there was a hastily-muffled sound behind his back, like someone had yelped in excitement.

"Let's…?" Donna was watching him expectantly, waiting for him to say it.

"Felicity, let's get married — right now."

Felicity stared at him like he'd chosen a terrible moment to make a joke. "I'm being serious here, Oliver."

"So am I," he answered. "You said it yourself — we're always proposing to each other, and there's never been a _right_ time. What if there isn't? What if all that matters to me is the fact that you're with me, and that we're surrounded by our friends and family?"

"Are you _quoting_ me to get me to marry you?" Felicity said incredulously.

"I'm proposing," Oliver said, taking her hand — the one that wore his ring — in his. "Our fifth proposal, and it's the last one I'm going to make. Because I want to be married to you, right now. Even if it means I only get to be your husband for hours, or days, or months — I don't want there to be an _almost_ when it comes to us."

What followed was one of the few occasions when Felicity was left speechless. In the silence, her eyes traveled slowly across his face, like she was reading him for any hesitation, any regrets.

Oliver let her, because there wasn't — there well and truly wasn't. Too many _maybes_ , and this time, Oliver didn't want there to be.

"Yes," she said, and it was like everything had begun again.

* * *

Donna fumbled for the light switch and flicked it on, illuminating the cluttered interior of the janitor's closet that was doubling as a changing room — why, Felicity wasn't entirely sure. She'd expected to just duck into the rooftop stairwell for a few seconds and force everyone to pretend _-ooh_ -and- _ahh_ when she walked back in.

"Mom," Felicity said. "I don't need a dress."

Her mother snorted. "Of course you need a dress," she said, pulling something red over her arm. "It's the only thing you have besides that pair of jeans you're wearing, and you are _not_ getting married in a pair of jeans with blood on it."

Felicity picked at the half-faded patch on the thigh. "I'm not even sure that's mine," she said.

Donna shot her sternest mom look at Felicity's clothes. "Off," she said. "Or I'm getting all the girls in here to help."

"Psh," Felicity said, struggling out of her jacket. "Like Nyssa cares if I get married in a dress."

"I'm sure she'll care if she gets to take a peek at what she's missing," Donna suggested primly. "That girl has _very_ good taste."

Felicity's voice was muffled in the folds of her shirt now. "That _girl_ is also an assassin, and happily married, just BTW."

Donna whipped Felicity's shirt out of sight as soon as she'd taken it off, like she was worried that her daughter might get funny ideas about putting it on again. With a surprisingly business-like expression, she held the dress up and motioned for Felicity to lift her arms so she could slide it over her head. Acknowledging a lost argument, Felicity did as she was told.

The cool silk lining on the inside of the dress made goosebumps rise all over Felicity's skin as she wriggled into it, her eyes tightly shut. They must have taken it straight from her closet at home. It smelled like her perfume and a little bit of the dry-cleaning fluid off Oliver's clean suits — the same — except it seemed to fit a little more snugly than she remembered, though Donna zipped it up for her just fine.

Felicity originally looked down at her stomach to see if she'd put on weight, but she was instantly distracted by the fact that it was the dress she'd worn to Diggle and Lyla's second-and-a-half wedding, the one Oliver had zipped up for her while they stood in front of the vanity mirror that sunlit morning, the one she'd been wearing when they danced under the marquee, and Oliver had whispered a simple question in her ear — the first step in the rest of their lives together.

"Oh, sweetie, what's wrong?" Donna asked, because Felicity had tears in her eyes. "You look beautiful!"

Felicity shook her head. "I just…I can't believe I'm actually going to marry Oliver. I keep expecting something to go wrong again, but this…"

Donna pulled her hair gently from its ponytail, and it fell loosely around her bare shoulders. "This is it," she finished, cupping her daughter's face. "Nothing's going to go wrong. You're going to marry the man you love, and you two are going to be crazy, over-the-moon, _Prozac-happy_."

"For however long we have," Felicity said, softly.

Donna nodded, but she didn't say so. A knock on the door startled them both, and Thea stuck her head inside.

"Hi," she said breathlessly, her cheeks flushed pink from running between rooftop and wherever. Perpetually the party planner, even for impromptu rooftop weddings. "Hot _dress_ — and just FYI, we've secured the groom and wardrobe choices aside, everything's ready to go when you are."

Thea — with the trademark Queen aplomb — said _wardrobe choices_ like Oliver had decided to get married in pajamas…or a suit bought off the rack. Felicity had a hunch what it might be, but she bit her lip and looked at her mother. "I think we're good," she said. "Right?"

Donna nodded emphatically. "We're good."

"Fantastic. My evil plan to rope myself a sister-in-law is going _perfectly._ I just came by to give you _this_ — ah, crap —"

Thea knocked over a bucket of rags when she deposited Oliver's ring in Felicity's hand, which she exchanged (a little reluctantly) with her own. They'd been wearing their rings for so long that Felicity felt a little naked without it, but she closed her palm around the ring Oliver had made for himself and held it to her chest.

"One more thing," Thea muttered, and it took some scooting and shuffling (Felicity nearly whacked herself with a mop handle at one point), but Thea eventually managed to get enough elbow room to extract a faded brown leather jacket from her bag. "It's getting chilly up there. I thought you might want to wear it, since it's —"

"—Oliver's," Felicity finished, but she made no move to take it. Instead, she pulled Oliver's little sister into a hug.

"Thank you," she whispered, into her hair. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

Thea's laugh sounded like a wet gurgle. "Don't thank me yet," she said, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand. "You're about to be inducted into the Queen clan, and it's going to be _cra-zy_. Any second thoughts, Felicity-almost-maiden-name-Smoak?"

Felicity shook her head. "I'm marrying your brother," she said. "None whatsoever."

"I'll see if I can get Ollie to reconsider what he's wearing," Thea said, with another watery sniff. She kissed Felicity's cheek on her way out the door. "Welcome to the family."

The words lingered in the air like a blessing long after she'd gone. "Oh, I love that girl," Donna said, shaking out the folds of Oliver's leather jacket. Her eyes were suspiciously bright as she held it up for Felicity to slip her arms into.

"It's chilly up there," she said, with a wide smile that told Felicity everything her mom was feeling about letting her daughter go.

"Might be rain," Felicity agreed, as the not-so-distant thunder echoed outside.

Donna chuckled, and flicked her bangs out of her eyes when she straightened up. "Quickie wedding, rain — now the only thing missing is a baby in your belly," she said teasingly, rubbing Felicity's stomach to make her giggle.

"Except the white dress, and the heels, and _Vegas_ …" Felicity corrected, and a tear slid down Donna's cheek.

"Well," she sniffed. "Red was always your color — _oh_ —" Donna trailed off when Felicity dabbed the tear away from her mother's face with her thumb.

"Don't cry, mom," Felicity whispered. "Please don't cry."

"Can't help it," Donna insisted. "My genius girl's getting married. You _bet_ I'm going to cry my eyes out."

They laughed at that, and Donna caught Felicity's hand in hers, kissing the back of it like she used to when Felicity was younger. "I love you so much, my darling girl," she said, and softly pulled her daughter's head down to give her another kiss on the forehead, a soft peck and a breath of her perfume. "You've been so brave, and whatever happens tonight, I want you to know that I am so — _so_ _—_ proud of you."

A long time ago, Felicity told herself that it didn't matter — it didn't matter if Donna was disappointed in her. She'd sealed away the part of her still aching from being left behind by a father she barely remembered and steeled the rest of her heart against a mother so fundamentally different from herself…just in case. Another thing left in Damien's wake: a chasm between mother and daughter that turned out to be only a few steps wide — because Donna and Felicity were more alike than either of them realized. They were stubborn in the best ways, fiery in defense of the people they loved, and firm believers in the strength of hope.

Felicity was only sorry she didn't see it for as long as she did, and she hadn't realized how much she'd needed her mother to say it until she did. So she wrapped her arms around her mother for one last hug. "I love you mom," she breathed. "Thank you."

* * *

"I thought you can only perform wedding ceremonies during working hours?" Roy said, though the question was phrased without fastidiousness, just out of laconic curiosity.

"Details, Abercrombie, Dig's doing it — leave it at that," Thea said, going over Oliver's suit with a hyper-critical eye. "Are you sure you want to wear green leather to your own wedding? Like _really, really_ sure?"

Oliver smiled at her concern. "It feels right," he said simply.

"I agree," Diggle said, pretending to look over the edge of the roof. "Anything to stop the groom from jumping head-first off the Starling City Courthouse."

"Please, I could run fast enough to catch him," Barry said, and high-fived Diggle to their mutual amusement.

"Funny," Oliver said, shooting his best friend a look.

"Well, since I'm not allowed to make jokes during the ceremony, I need to get them out of my system," Diggle said, very calmly. "How's the bride? Changed her mind yet?"

"Oh, she's still bent on marrying my idiot brother," Thea said, playing along. "Couldn't talk her out of it. Which reminds me —" She snatched Oliver's hand and dropped a ring into his palm. "It's Felicity's — lose it, and I _will_ kill you."

"I'll do my best not to," Oliver answered, already turning the small titanium band between his fingers. The grayish metal was smooth and meticulously made, a process Oliver acutely remembered for how much it had meant to him — making a wedding ring for the woman he loved.

Thea smiled and stood on tiptoe to kiss Oliver's cheek. "Congratulations, Ollie. After a decade of man-whoring and generally being an embarrassing big brother, you've found _the_ woman who's completely right for you, who knows you —" she gave him a poke in the chest "— inside and out, who loves you as much as you _absolutely_ deserve. As your little sister, I couldn't be happier, and all I ask…is that you _always_ remember to lock your door and keep things PG-13 in front of me, because I'm easily scarred. Deal?"

Oliver laughed and held out his arms. "Deal," he said, and Thea walked into them.

"Mom would be so proud," she whispered, and Oliver hoped with all his heart that it was true.

"Oliver Queen," said Nyssa. She'd appeared behind them without a sound, and they shifted aside to let her pass. She rested a hand on Oliver's shoulder. "My sincere congratulations. You've been abominably slow, but I seem to recall you have a saying _better late than never_."

"Thank you, Nyssa," Oliver said, trying not to smile in the face of her seriousness.

"Hurt her," she said calmly, "and I will _ensure_ that your body is never found."

" _Aaand_ the nice moment's over," Barry muttered.

"I would never," Oliver promised, and Nyssa gave him one of her rare smiles as she strode away to rejoin Sara and Captain Lance.

Roy surprised all of them by hugging Oliver when it was his turn, no preamble, and shuffling back a few paces afterwards, his head ducked like he was embarrassed. "Congratulations," he mumbled. "I'm really happy for you."

"Thank you, Roy," Oliver answered, and meant it.

"Well, anything I say can't get any worse than that," Barry said, noticeably relieved of some weight as he gave Oliver a hug. "Congratulations, man. You _finally_ got the girl...by not taking your own advice."

Oliver snorted. "Your fault for listening in the first place."

Thea rolled her eyes. " _Men_ ," she said, and pulled Barry and Roy off with her. "Come on, guys. Places."

Diggle cleared his throat. " _Places_ ," he repeated, and gestured for Oliver to take up his spot at the far end of the rooftop.

"Hey," Ray said, which surprised Oliver because he hadn't been expecting them to talk. "Do you have a minute?"

Diggle patted Oliver on the shoulder. "See you up there," he said, and left them alone.

Ray approached Oliver with a good-natured smile, but Oliver thought he could see a little wistfulness in it, and he knew why. It was the same look he'd forced himself to have when every instinct in his body told him not to let Felicity go.

"Congratulations," Ray said. "Really. After everything you guys have been through, you both deserve nothing but happiness."

A lesser man would have gloated, and in all honesty, Oliver knew a part of him wanted to. But it wouldn't have been right. "If things had gone another way…" he began, but Ray shook his head.

"Come on, we both know that's not true," he said, lightly. "If it was as simple as coincidence, the two of you would never have gotten this far. The world's not kind, but you guys have fought through everything it's thrown your way. There's a word for it, _love — fate —_ whatever you want to call it, but I think we both know that you and Felicity are meant for each other." Ray inclined his head with a rueful smile. "It's past time I accepted that."

"It's hard to let go," Oliver agreed. "And I don't expect you to — not right now — but I hope you'll find someone. Someone who makes you happy."

Ray waved his hand. "I'm an optimist. It's the one thing I've never had to fix," he said, with a grin. "Felicity once told me that she didn't want to settle for anything less than _real_ , that you were… _more_. She's right."

Oliver found a smile. "She usually is."

Ray nodded. "I want to find something real, someone who sees me the way she sees you. _More_. I think we all deserve that, don't we?"

There were many things Oliver might have said in response, but Ray had, in a surprisingly succinct way, summed it all up. So Oliver smiled, and shook Ray's hand.

"Thank you," he said, and it was like the book had closed on a chapter of their lives, like they were each starting on a new page. Partners going forward, and hopefully – friends.

"Congratulations," Ray said again, and returned to the others, leaving Oliver to walk up the makeshift aisle towards Diggle.

"How did _that_ go?" Diggle asked curiously.

Oliver inhaled, deeply. "Good," he said, holding Felicity's ring in the palm of his hand. "Really good."

"Glad to hear it," Diggle said, tilting his head to look at Oliver. "But in all seriousness — are you nervous?"

Oliver lifted his head, closing his hand around the ring. "Not in the slightest," he said. "This is right — thank you for helping me see it."

A smile broke out on their faces, and Diggle offered his hand. "Congratulations, brother. You're marrying someone who saw the man you were — and the man you could be — right from the start. She makes you want to be a better person, and I know that with her at your side, whatever happens tonight — it'll see you through the storm."

The sky rumbled overhead as he spoke, but Oliver was looking down at Diggle's outstretched hand. He grinned. "I think we can do better than that," he said, and they laughed, moving simultaneously into a hug.

They broke apart just as a door opened and the comforting murmur of talk gradually hushed into silence.

Oliver turned to look across the rooftop, and everything just seemed to…fall away. At the back of his mind was an image of Felicity as he'd seen her in the pit, wearing a white dress and veil, flowers in her hand, walking down the aisle of a church towards him. The reality couldn't have been more different. Donna was still the one walking her daughter down the aisle, beaming as she did, but the dress Felicity wore was rose red, the one she'd been wearing when Oliver had first proposed to her, at the wedding of two very dear friends — so long ago now, too long ago.

It was red. Red as the pen she'd had in her hand when they'd met — not knowing, never _imagining_ , that the winding road would lead them to where they stood today.

Her hair tumbled loose around her shoulders, gold and brown glowing against her smiling face. The endearingly nervous smile was the same as the one he'd seen in his dream, and when their eyes locked, the sureness in Oliver's heart — the instinct that told him was nowhere else he would rather have been — was only different because it was a hundred, a _thousand_ times stronger.

It wasn't like the future he'd dreamed about in the pit, but seeing Felicity Smoak — now — the sunlit memory paled into nothing more than an illusion, a replacement for something infinitely more precious. Something real.

The glow in her eyes only grew when she saw that he was wearing the Arrow's suit, because — like a ring made from arrowheads — it held more significance than anything more conventional ever could. It was a part of his soul, a part of him she'd accepted with all her heart and fused together with his identity, even in the darkest time of his life when he'd thought himself broken at the seams and too far from hope.

She'd never doubted.

Oliver smiled at her, unbelievably glad that he was going to marry her, this rare, brilliant woman — whose fierce intelligence and courage had saved him more times than he could count, whose steadfast presence in his life gave him reason to hope that every day might be as beautiful as she said it could be, whose love was strong enough to bring him back from the dead, even against the will of nature.

Because it was more, so much more.

Even if they might only have hours instead of years, Oliver had no regrets. He loved her. A privilege, an honor, and a promise.

_That's all there is_.

When the first drop of rain landed on her cheek, Felicity only tipped her head up and laughed. She held her hands out by her sides and smiled at him as if to say, _how could it not?_ As she neared the end of the makeshift aisle, she left her mother with a kiss and stepped up to join Oliver in front of their best friend. "Nervous?" she asked, as she slipped her hand into his.

Oliver shook his head as thunder shook the clouds above their heads, and the rain began to fall. "Line forms behind me," he said, in a voice that was meant only for her ears.

Felicity nodded, and Diggle — unfazed, even in the middle of a thunderstorm — commenced the ceremony that would join them for life.

And beyond that, if Oliver could help it.

* * *

The rain didn't bother Felicity, and in all honesty, there was a chance she'd missed about seventy-five percent of what Diggle said, with the thunder and lightning flashing and booming above their heads. Still, she smiled at Oliver through the pouring rain, because Felicity knew without a doubt that neither of them would have had it any other way.

It was a perfect wedding, in that it wasn't — which made it absolutely _right_ for them. Felicity stood facing Oliver, soaking wet in her red dress and his leather jacket, her hands clasped in his unshakably warm grip. Never in her wildest (and uncontrollably babbled) dreams had she imagined that they might wind up here, when she was a nobody IT girl working in Queen Consolidated, and he was the billionaire playboy who'd come back from the dead with secrets in his smile and battered armor around his scarred heart.

The Oliver that stood before her now, soaking wet from the rain, had come so far, and he smiled at her with faith, hope, and _love_.

Always love.

They didn't have vows, not because they didn't plan to honor them, but because all the vows, all the promises…they'd already been engraved on their hearts, hands, and minds for longer than either of them had really guessed, and all that was left was for them to say, again:

"I love you and I trust you," Oliver said, sliding the ring he'd made her onto the fourth finger of her left hand. "For as long as we both shall live."

"I love you and I trust you," Felicity repeated, returning his ring to where it was meant to be. "For as long as we both shall live."

"Oliver Jonas Queen, Felicity Megan Smoak, I — _finally —_ pronounce you husband and wife," Diggle said, and Felicity saw him wink. "You may —"

Neither Oliver nor Felicity waited for Diggle to finish, and when the next crackle of lightning hit — a blinding flash of white behind Felicity's closed eyes — they'd already met in the middle, their world shrunk to nothing except the twin beats of two joined hearts and the familiar warmth of each other's lips sealing a promise that only they could hear.

Water coursed down their faces from the freezing rain, but Felicity wrapped her arms around Oliver's neck and let him lift her clean off her feet as they kissed, because _they were married, they were married, they were married_.

Finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title just about sums up what I'm feeling about this update in general. Feels AMAZING to get it off my chest.
> 
> I know the wedding's not perfect, and it may not be what everyone imagined, but I feel like the Oliver and Felicity in Legacies 100% deserve a wedding they both want more than anything in the world, and this is it to me.
> 
> P.S.:
> 
> Klarolicityswan: There's your rain scene. Hope it matched up to your expectations. Love ya, babe (MUAH)
> 
> Pidanka: This is what I meant by "Rain + Wedding + Mom", in case that's not clear. (This fantastic human being knows a LOT more than she lets on, I'm serious)


	71. A Moment in Time

"Congratulations, Felicity!" Donna said, squeezing Felicity so hard that she swore she heard something crack.

"Mom – dying – here," Felicity wheezed, patting her on the back. "First – hug – as married — woman – should — not – be – last."

"Oh, I'm sorry, sweetie!" Donna pulled back apologetically. "I just thought I'd never get to hug you after your wedding, because you were gonna send me one of those tacky postcards to tell me you and Oliver had eloped in – I don't know – _Mexico_ or something."

Thea snorted. "Like I would have let that happen," she said. "I would have frozen Ollie's accounts before I let them get married in anything less than a five-star hotel. Or a castle."

Felicity looked up at Oliver. "Did I tell you how glad I am that we're already married?" she said, and (as immature as it was) her smile grew at the thrill of saying the word _married_ , because they were — they _so_ were.

Oliver smiled, and leaned down to kiss her in front of everyone. "I guessed," he said, and there was a theatrical (possibly exaggerated) sound of gagging behind them.

Possibly because he'd exhausted his hug-quota for the day, Quentin ended up shaking Oliver's hand in congratulations. "Gotta say, wet weather aside — this is one of my favorite weddings."

Sara laughed, her arms still around Felicity from the post-wedding hug. "You're just saying that because you hate wearing tuxes."

Lance made a little _chit_ sound in response to his daughter's sass. "You know I hate wearing penguin suits, sweetie. Those bow ties always make me feel like someone's trying to strangle me."

"I do not understand," Nyssa said, a crease between her eyebrows. Even with wet hair, she managed to look like she'd just strolled off the front page of _Assassin's Weekly: Glamour Edition_. "What is a penguin suit, and why does it strangle? Is it some kind of weapon?"

Felicity couldn't help laughing at that one. She was still trying to catch her breath when Nyssa leaned in to kiss her on both cheeks (which did _not_ make her think of the time they'd kissed for real — not at all). " _Mabrouk_ , Sa'ida," she said throatily. "A beautiful ceremony. May the fates smile upon your union and bless you with long and happy lives. You make a lovely bride — I only hope your husband proves himself worthy of his good fortune."

The last part was supplemented with a not-so-subtle look of caution in Oliver's direction, which he accepted with his usual good grace. Namely by curling his arm around Felicity's shoulders and pulling her to him so he could kiss her forehead, a move guaranteed to make her giggle.

She did.

It was nauseating.

_Click._

They all looked around in surprise, to find Cisco fiddling with a black camera, twisting dials and pressing buttons with his tongue poking out of his mouth.

Barry cleared his throat in a long-suffering kind of way, waving a hand to get his best friend's attention. "Cisco. Over here."

Cisco looked up, and seemed to be surprised that everyone was staring. "What?" he said, as if it was obvious. "Wedding photos. You'll thank me later."

"How is it you have a camera with you?" Oliver asked, peering at him through the sheets of rain still merrily coming down.

Cisco shook his head, sending more water flying in their direction like a dog shaking his floppy ears. " _This_ – is not a camera," he said, indicating the device that for all intents and purposes, _looked_ like a regular Nikon. "This baby is an all-weather, fully waterproof and damage-resistant optical storage unit."

"So…a _camera_ ," Roy said.

Thea looked up at the sky and coughed out a mouthful of rain. "More importantly — it's pouring."

"Oh, so we can storm a hostile warship in thunderstorm conditions, but a little rain means we miss out on commemorating the big moments?" Cisco said, unconcernedly clicking away. "Like _that's_ gonna happen."

As warm and cuddly as Diggle was on the inside, he could also be surprisingly intimidating when he folded his arms and tweaked his dial to _sarcasm_. "Gee," he said. "Wonder why we never thought of that, what with our secret identities and the possibility of fun group shots winding up in the wrong hands?"

Barry patted the lightning bolt on the front of his suit. "Oh yeah," he said ruefully. "Forgot I was wearing this."

"Well, doesn't the whole city already know about you guys?" Donna asked, her eyes wide with curiosity.

"Just us three, mom," Felicity answered, indicating herself, Oliver, and Diggle. "I mean, we're not exactly subtle, but I figured that having photos lying around would be like drawing everyone a map to all the superheroes in the county."

"Aw, thanks Felicity," Barry said cheerfully — which wasn't the point.

"Guessing your identities isn't exactly rocket science, you know," Lance said. "Anyone who knows all of you hang out could connect the dots. Besides — Oliver, you told me this is the start of something…a league, right?" He lifted his shoulders. "If you're not gonna head off to war without making a memory out of it, at least make the exception for your own wedding."

 _Because it's my wedding day_ made a surprisingly good excuse for pretty much everything. They were still arm in arm when Felicity looked at Oliver with raised eyebrows. "First league photo?" she said. "I mean — we're all dressed for it."

She already knew from the look on Oliver's face that he wasn't going to say no to her, not for this — or pretty much anything. Which boded _very_ well for their marital future, if it wasn't too presumptuous to say.

"As long as it's you asking…" he murmured, and there was an explosive sigh.

Roy gave such a massive eye-roll that Felicity was honestly surprised he managed to see straight afterwards. "Oh god," he said, even though she could tell he meant it affectionately. "Can we just take the damn photo before we all drown?"

Thea kissed her boyfriend's cheek. "Such a teddy bear, this one," she said, and clapped her hands, all business again. " _All right_ — how about we all line up? Tallest at the back!"

* * *

"I'm pretty sure this qualifies as one of the weirder things we've done," Felicity said, over the shuffling and rearranging of people taking up places for the photo. "And bear in mind, Dig and I once jumped off a plane to gatecrash Oliver's vacation on Lian Yu."

"I don't like this," Roy said, sounding distinctly disgruntled from his spot in the front row. "Why do they get to be at the back?"

He jabbed his thumb at Barry, Ray, and Diggle, who were all tall enough to give anyone pause.

"Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to," Diggle said, with a smile that bordered on smug.

Roy said something very rude that was mostly drowned out by a convenient thunderclap. But Nyssa raised an eyebrow nonetheless. "In Nanda Parbat, anyone who used that manner of profanity would have been made to swallow hot coals."

Sara slipped an arm around Nyssa's waist. "She's kidding. They just make you sub in for the archery target."

"That —" Thea said, positioning a smirking Lyla beside her husband, "— is what the swear jar at home is for. Two more rectum-related cuss words and I can buy that coffeemaker I've had my eye on for a while."

"Oo, I'll chip in," Felicity said. "We have a jar at home too."

"Yeah, I've seen it, and it's the income of a small country _._ My brother only swears in Russian, and then pretends he's just talking about the weather," Thea said. "How do you have so much cash in there?"

"Um…" Something about Felicity's expression must have tipped everyone off, because Barry and Roy turned to her with identical expressions of horror.

"It's not like that!" she said hastily. "It's for dinner parties! Oliver puts a dollar in every time he makes me come first —"

Even Oliver winced.

Barry gagged, wringing his hands. " _Ew._ You let me take money out of there to pay the pizza guy!"

"To. Dinner. Parties _,_ " Felicity said firmly, her face hot enough to reduce the raindrops to steam. "The _dinner parties_ that we have. At home. Not just the two of us. That'd be weird. And we're not. We invite people all the time. Right — um — Oliver?"

But he'd buried his face in her hair, shaking too hard with silent laughter to be of much help in the rescue effort for her over-sharing fiasco.

Fantastic. They'd been married for all of five minutes, and Felicity had already embarrassed herself. She'd honestly never been happier that her mother wasn't in earshot, because she was currently receiving instructions (alongside Captain Lance, thank God) on how to work Cisco's weird non-camera.

Sara smiled at Felicity's furiously pink face. "You're cute," she said.

"Mm-hm. Those parties sound very…fun," Caitlin said, straight-faced.

"Good for you — I didn't know you two had friends outside of us," Lyla agreed, because her husband was staring fixedly at the rainy sky like it was telling him something of national importance.

Or because he knew that any eye contact with one of their friends was going to set off a laughing fit, one with a pretty good chance of killing him from sheer magnitude.

"Always good to branch out," Thea said, determinedly avoiding the non-PG-13 implications of Felicity's word vomit.

"Rather too much, I think," Nyssa muttered.

"I think I've got it!" Donna announced, at the precise moment Felicity was about to suggest a lobotomy for herself.

Felicity's mother pivoted slowly on her heels, staring into the lens with an expression of intense concentration. "Red button clicks the thingy…and the blue one makes it flash, right Cisco?"

Lance shifted her fingers to the right buttons. "There you go," he said, with a warm smile. "Just a regular camera."

Donna beamed. "Such a sweetheart," she said, oblivious to Felicity's frozen expression. "How's everyone doing over there? Are we all ready?"

Cisco raced across the wet rooftop. "Almost — almost — _whoa_ —" He skidded on the wet concrete, forcing Nyssa to catch him around the collar and haul him back to his feet with a gigantic slosh of water that flooded Felicity's already-sodden shoes.

"T-thanks," he said, patting his t-shirt like he was calming his palpitating heart. "You're really — um —"

He then proceeded to emit a high-pitched noise Felicity suspected had nothing to do with his admiration of Nyssa's impressive reflexes, but his not-so-secret crush on the queen of assassins.

"We all ready?" Donna asked again, the camera held in front of her.

"Dying of embarrassment," Felicity said, covering her face, "but sure, we're ready."

"Oh, Felicity," her mother scoffed. "So dramatic."

Thea backed away to survey everyone's positions. Felicity was in the middle with Oliver — Roy at his side, Sara and Nyssa at hers. Barry looked perfectly happy using Oliver and Roy's shoulders as elbow rests, while Diggle and Lyla were arm in arm behind Felicity's.

"Needless to say, everybody should be smiling in this photo," Thea said, squeezing herself between Roy and her brother. "Just imagine blue skies instead of flood warnings."

"The peace sign's okay, right?" Roy asked, holding up two fingers.

He made an indignant noise when Thea flipped his hand around. " _That's_ the peace sign, genius. What you were doing just now was a _real_ nice way of telling people to shove something up their —"

"—what?" Roy said, obviously shocked. " _Barry._ "

"Honest mistake!" Barry promised, but Felicity caught him exchanging a sneaky grin with Cisco.

" _Guys_ ," Caitlin said. "Picture first — kill each other later."

Felicity tugged self-consciously on the hem of her dress while they bickered. Her ears were still tellingly pink from the verbal snafu, but when she looked around at all her friends and family, both brand new and old, a smile crept onto her face at the belated humor of the whole thing. Because _who_ would she be without the embarrassing Freudian slip-ups, especially on her rainy-not-remotely-conventional wedding day?

Good to know that Felicity Queen was still incorrigibly _Smoak_.

Nobody was remotely close to shutting up when Donna began to count. " _Three…_ "

Oliver bent his head to whisper in her ear. "Hey," he said, obviously recovered from his laughing fit. "I wouldn't change a single thing about today."

"Not even the part about the jar?" Felicity asked, looking dubiously up at him and disregarding the fact that Donna was already on _two_.

Oliver wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close. "It's why I fell in love with Felicity Smoak," he answered, utterly without hesitation. "And it's why I'll love Felicity Queen."

Felicity pretended to squint at him. "For as long as we have?" she asked.

" _Fe-li-ci-ty_ ," her mother said, warningly.

They both faced the front again, grinning guiltily like teenagers caught in the act, but just before Donna clicked the shutter, Oliver's breath tickled her cheek when he murmured: " _Longer_."

" _One!_ "

The flash went off with a tiny _click_ , but Felicity didn't see it — because the final shot was of her and Oliver turned towards each other in the falling rain, a broad smile on his face and a laugh on hers, the both of them incandescently happy at the quiet promise of a beautiful future, whatever came next.

* * *

The torrential downpour showed no signs of easing by the time the impromptu wedding party ducked into the rooftop stairwell for cover, laughter and whispers echoing up the smooth walls as they hurried down below.

Oliver and Felicity were the last to the door, partly because she was deliberately hopping through the trail of icy puddles in an attempt to get Oliver more soaked than he already was. She was frozen stiff but giddy with happiness, arm in arm with her husband. Her Oliver.

Felicity stumbled into the stairwell, breathless from laughing. Everyone else was at least a few floors ahead, and she was about to follow when Oliver caught her hand — just in the shadow of the arch — and held her back with a smile.

"Just a minute," he said, and she knew why.

Felicity leaned back against one side of the frame in her red dress while he took the other. Their feet nudged each other at the ankles while their eyes smiled secrets across the narrow space between them. Felicity wrung the water out of her hair while Oliver looked her over from head to toe in his quiet way, like he was memorizing every last detail about the way she looked.

"It's supposed to be good luck, you know," she said, as water drummed on the roof above their heads. "Rain on a wedding day."

Oliver rested his head against the frame and looked out into the cascading rain. "I'd like to think so."

"Of course you like me soaking wet," Felicity said, and stopped mid-wring as she considered her words. "I mean…clothes-wise. Not – anywhere else. Not that I'm saying that you don't like me… _that way_ , but –"

Oliver laughed. "Felicity," he said. "I do."

A blush sprang immediately into her cheeks and buried her face in both hands. "Oh — my — God," she laughed. "What is _wrong_ with me? Two in the last thirty minutes — even for me, that's a new record."

"Felicity." Oliver crossed easily into her space and gently tipped her face up to his with a finger under her chin. "Felicity Queen," he said again, evidently enjoying the sound of it just as much as she did.

Felicity gave a pretend _hm_ of thoughtfulness. "No regrets, Mr. Queen?"

Oliver shook his head determinedly. "I'm happy," he said, in a whisper soft enough to melt her knees. "I married you."

"To be fair," Felicity said teasingly, looping her arms around his neck to pull him even closer. "I feel like we've been married for a _long_ time, pre-actual-marriage. All those arguments, all the stuff you let me do to you, all those wars and identity crises — that's very _marriage-_ y, isn't it?"

Oliver touched his forehead to hers with a low, contented sigh. "It is," he agreed.

"Think it'll last?"

He pretended to think about it. "Say yes to fifty years."

"Twenty-five. I like to keep my options open."

"Fifty."

"Twenty-five, and we'll re-negotiate on our anniversary," Felicity said firmly, and pulled back to give him a look. "You do realize I call the shots in this marriage, right?"

"Wouldn't have it any other way," Oliver said, and just like that, they were smiling into their kiss, one that was — with any luck — only the first of many in a long and happy life together.

Fifty years. It wasn't _nearly_ enough for Felicity, but even a marriage like theirs had to start somewhere.

* * *

The front facade of the courthouse provided some protection against the rain, even though the wind managed to blow fine sprays of mist past the towering marble columns. Felicity wiped her face on the sodden leather sleeve of Oliver's jacket, clutching it around her as she huddled over the wedding snapshots with her mother.

"I should take rain photos more often," Donna said, holding the still-warm photographs Cisco had managed to print at lightning speed. Even in a canary-yellow dress that was _not_ meant to be seen soaking wet, Donna still managed to look fantastic in the mother-daughter photos. Which boded well for Felicity, assuming she ever reached that age (morbid), or ever wore that color (serious question).

Felicity glanced across the front steps and saw that Oliver was still talking with Captain Lance. Neither of them were natural smilers, but she knew the former well enough to guess that they were discussing SCPD holding down the fort while the fireworks went off in the open sea.

"Oh, sweetie, look at that," said her mother, sighing over a photo with just Felicity and Oliver. "Any dress that can look like that soaking wet is a _keeper_."

"Oh _god_." Felicity suppressed a laugh at the one of Oliver kissing her cheek while she smiled like a moron. "That's embarrassing."

"Hm." Donna gave Felicity's cheek a playful pinch. "He's a keeper too. Green leather isn't an easy look to pull off, and I _swear_ that boy's incapable of taking a bad photo."

It was Felicity's turn to make a non-committal noise, mostly because Thea had given her empirical evidence to the contrary. Some of the more unfortunate ones screamed _potential serial killer_ — but Donna didn't need to know that.

"Oh, aren't you the cutest?" Donna laughed, sifting through the photos. "Half of these aren't even you two looking at the camera!"

Felicity looked away from the glossy squares of captured smiles, towards the plane that was waiting for them at the foot of the slippery marble steps. Her heart sank, just a little, even though she'd known it was coming since the beginning.

"Mom," Felicity said, and Donna looked up, as if she'd lost track of time.

"You're going?" she asked, wide-eyed at the prospect of saying goodbye to her only daughter.

Felicity wrapped her arms around her mother in a careful hug, kissing her mother's cheek as she did. "We can't stay," she answered, but refrained from giving the reason they already knew.

Donna looked resigned, but her hand rubbed slow, comforting circles in Felicity's back, a gesture that was familiar to them both.

"Felicity, don't forget to lock the door if you two are going to use the airplane bathroom," she whispered, like it was golden advice. "Helps a _lot_ if there's privacy for your —"

Felicity jerked her head away like she'd been zapped with electricity. First of all — _duh._ Second of all — _ew._ A hundred times _ew._ " _Mom_ ," she said indignantly. "Oliver and I aren't going to —"

Donna's face lit up. "—so you'll get a hotel room?"

" _No_." Felicity swore her face was red enough to match her dress, and she couldn't have been more grateful that Oliver was out of earshot.

"Mom, we are not leaving on our honeymoon. We — not just Oliver and I, _we_ — are going to ruin dad's day by blowing a hole in his destroy-the-city plan. _That_ , I'll take over a week in Bali."

Donna bit her lip and smoothed down the shoulders of Oliver's leather jacket. "You and your dad…you were always so alike. There was a point where you practically spoke the same language." She cleared her throat. "I just never thought it would come to this."

"He hurt Oliver," Felicity answered. "He's hurt my friends. I can't let that happen again."

"I know you can't," Donna sighed, smoothing Felicity's hair. "My brave, beautiful, genius daughter."

Felicity lifted her shoulders jokingly. "Hey, you raised her."

Still Donna didn't smile. "I know it's not right to ask you to stay," she said, firmly. "I know why you're going, and I love you so much for it — but I _am_ your mother, and I _can_ ask you to come home. Because you have your whole life ahead of you. You still have to start this league thingy everyone was talking about, and do the newlywed thing, _and_ give your poor old mom some grandchildren…"

"Mom —"

Donna had Felicity's hands in hers. " _Promise_."

Felicity nodded. "I promise I'll try," she said, and they hugged again — tighter this time.

"I love you so much, Felicity," Donna whispered, and the fierceness in her voice made Felicity's eyes sting with tears.

She wiped her face again, pretending it was the rain. "I love you too, mom," she said hoarsely.

Behind them, Lance was whispering to his daughter, their heads pressed together as he did what Donna was about to do — send their daughters off to war. Oliver was already waiting on the front steps, and held out his hand to help her down the rainwashed stairs.

"Go," Donna said, in response to Felicity's backward glance. She kissed her daughter's wet cheek again and backed away, her hands clasped beneath her chin as if in prayer. "Bring her back in one piece!" she said to Oliver.

"I will," he answered. "I promise."

"Take care of my mom!" Felicity called to Lance, squeezing his hand before she hurried down the steps with Oliver, their heads ducked against the downpour.

Lightning pierced the sky as the doors closed, and the engines came to life with a roar that matched the thunder in the air. Felicity held onto Oliver as the plane started to rise, the heat from the exhaust cutting a wide circumference through the rain. Donna was on the rainwashed stairs, Lance's arm around her shoulders, the both of them watching the plane take off.

At the very last, Donna raised her hand and waved, the stark paleness of her face swallowed by in the rapidly gathering mist…

Then they were gone.

"Are you all right?" Oliver asked, and Felicity looked away from the window with a start.

She nodded, scattering the floor with droplets of icy water still running in rivulets down her face and hair. "You know, provided we're not heading to a christening or a bar mitzvah — because I've run out of atrociously embarrassing one-liners I can accidentally ruin those with," she said, with a shaky laugh.

Thea — who was as soaked as everyone else — looked up with a grin. Sara's eyes were a little red from saying goodbye to her father again, but she joined in too — a tentative curl to her mouth that became a full-blown smile when it was shared by Nyssa.

"Well, shoot," Diggle said. "I forgot to tell you about that retirement party for my least favorite uncle."

It wasn't one of his best, but the deadpanned line was enough to set off a few laughs, and by the end of it — everyone at least had a smile on their face. Felicity was still drying her eyes (from tears or laughter, she wasn't sure) when Oliver put a thick towel around her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek.

Felicity loved him for his unwavering support, and she was unspeakably grateful for the people standing in front of her now.

"Thank you for our wedding," she said. "It was…"

She caught Oliver's eye and the two of them laughed.

"It was perfect," she finished.

"We won't forget it," Oliver added.

"You'd better not," Diggle said pointedly. "It's the only time I'll ever get to officiate a wedding."

"What about _my_ wedding?" Cisco said, evidently hurt.

There was a loaded pause.

Roy leaned forward slightly, cupping his hands over his mouth. "Cisco, your fiancée — _is she in the room with us?_ " he said, in a loud stage whisper.

" _Ouch_." Cisco held a hand to his heart. "You're lucky I already had this baby printed out, or I'd be photoshopping some people out of this photo right about now."

He slapped something down onto the planning table with gusto. " _Bam._ Who says you can't take good photos in the rain?"

Felicity walked up to the table and saw what he'd printed. It was a larger version of their group shot, possibly the first and only photo with all of them together in one place, printed on thick, glossy paper, the nice kind that demanded to be framed and displayed in a place of pride. Diggle, Roy, Thea — even Nyssa — everyone was smiling into the camera…with the exception of her and Oliver, who were smiling at each other.

"I know it's a little early, but…" Cisco wagged his eyebrows. "First league photo?"

Thea pointed at the Sharpie in his hand. "And that's to draw devil horns and Stalin mustaches?"

"I thought we could all sign it," Cisco explained, looking genuinely surprised that none of them were following. "Like a souvenir, or a _We Were Here_ kind of thing."

"Would that not tempt fate?" Nyssa asked, turning a darkly challenging smile in their direction.

"Fate's overrated," Ray said, and then he and Oliver did something Felicity never would have expected.

They smiled at each other.

It was officially the end of the world.

Oliver stretched his hand out for the pen. "Why not?" he said, and Felicity watched him sign his name at the bottom.

One by one, they all put their names to the photo, not thinking about how they might be tempting fate or jumping the gun, but thinking about the reasons behind their smiles — the enduring wish for a better future preserved in a single instant. The hope that it would last, that it would turn out to be something more, something else.

Finally, only Felicity was left. Diggle passed her the pen, and when she looked for a spot to write — whether intentionally or otherwise — there was a space left between Oliver and Diggle's names.

She looked up and caught them both smiling at her. The archer and the soldier. Her two boys. It'd started with the three of them, and now…

"Original Team Arrow, baby," Cisco said, grinning ear to ear.

"This is either a _super_ bad idea, or a _really_ poetic one," Barry agreed, as Felicity made her artistically messy scrawl in between her two closest friends.

Diggle clapped his hand on Barry's shoulder. "I'll be honest with you, Barry — most of our ideas end up being a little bit of both," he said solemnly.

" _Yes_ they do," Felicity said, exchanging a teasing look with Oliver. " _And_ …done."

They all looked down at the photograph, signed now with all their names — partners, friends, and family. It wasn't the same as leaving their mark on the world, but it did mean something. It was acknowledgement — _pride_ — that at some moment in time, a group of extraordinary, yet very ordinary human beings, had gathered together in the belief that they could make some difference in the scales of bad and good, and all the gray in between.

Felicity exhaled, praying in her heart of hearts that it would mean something. "Welcome to the league," she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm going to make fic recs a regular part of my notes now. There's just so much goodness out there and people are so productive (heh, oops, I know I'm slower than I used to be).
> 
> Better Than Anything by Gnimaerd (I don't know if she has an AO3 account, someone tell me if she does, I just read the fic on her tumblr) — Ho-ly Shit. Explicit and very, very good. Needless to say, about Olicity.
> 
> Let Yourself Be At Peace by Ah-maa-zing — do you just post stuff weekly now? Inspired by the vacation pics Marc the troll so kindly posted for us. Well-chosen s3 references and a beautiful Olicity heart-to-heart.
> 
> Credits to the Olicity vacation photos and Pidanka for inspiring me to include a wedding photo bit.
> 
> Side note: Thanks to Pidanka (muah, love you), I was thinking about the Order of the Phoenix when I wrote the scene where everyone takes the league photo. I'm pretty sure almost nobody survives in the Order's first photo, so that really bodes well for everything, doesn't it? You're subconsciously evil, girl :))))
> 
> Sigh. Sept 1 has officially come and gone, I'm nineteen years old, still no flipping Hogwarts letter. Ah well. *waits patiently for next year*


	72. Something to Fight For

"And we're _sure_ this is going to work?" Roy said, watching dubiously as Cisco circled Ray with a tablet, doing last checks before launch.

"Oh, yeah," Cisco said distractedly, tapping on the screen. "Ninety-four percent."

Felicity looked up from the worktable with narrowed eyes. "Wasn't it ninety-eight?"

"We took four percent off because of the rain," Ray informed her, cheerily.

"How about another ninety percent for the arbitrary use of percentages?" Barry suggested.

Cisco twirled his finger in the air. "The fate of greatness is to be eternally misunderstood."

"Or prematurely deceased," Roy muttered.

" _Hey_." Felicity widened her eyes in warning. " _Ixnay_ on the negativity, Arsenal."

"Yes, ma'am," he muttered.

"So these are strictly _handle with care_ , okay?" Caitlin said, lining up three small vials in front of them. "We managed to make a synthesized version of the fear gas, as requested. Both as a doctor and as a sane human being, I _do not_ recommend setting these off in small spaces. Don't be fooled by the size — each of these has enough punch to fill a lab."

"And how do you know that?" Oliver asked mildly, holding the murky black contents up to the light.

Caitlin glared over her shoulder at Cisco. "He dropped one. In hindsight, it was a good way to test if the inoculate we gave ourselves last year still works — and it does. Thank good—"

There was a blur of movement in the corner of Felicity's eye. " _Whoa_ ," Barry said, holding onto a vial with a guilty expression on his face, like he'd almost dropped one of them — _and_ averted the ensuing disaster due to his superhuman speed.

Oliver seemed to find neither of these facts reassuring, since he had a dangerous expression on his face when Felicity reached over and plucked the vial from Barry's grasp. "Maybe I'll just…hold onto these," she said, stowing them carefully into the waterproof pouch. "Thanks, Caitlin."

"Good idea," Oliver said, and Barry pressed his hands together apologetically.

Felicity patted Oliver's back in reassurance. "Save that angry-face for the bad guys, babe. We're still an hour out."

Roy gave a tiny shake of his head. "No."

"What?" Felicity said, looking around. "Not a _babe_ kind of guy?"

Barry made a face. "Nope."

Felicity frowned up at Oliver, who looked both bemused and like he was questioning her sanity (promising). "I am diametrically opposed to calling you _sweetie_ ," she declared. "You don't look like the _boo_ type either… _aha_ —" she snapped her fingers.

"— there was a girl in my programming class who called her boyfriend _love monkey_."

Barry had to duck out of sight; his face was red from laughing so hard. Roy had a little more experience with life-saving suppression techniques, but he still looked vaguely cross-eyed from the effort of not cracking.

"Maybe we should discuss this…later," Oliver said, looking oddly torn between murder and amusement.

"No, please," Diggle said, having emerged from the cockpit after checking in on Lyla. "What's after _love monkey_?"

Oliver said something that sounded very rude in Russian, which made Diggle's grin wider.

It also made Felicity want to bite Oliver somewhere. Hard.

Felicity cleared her throat and gave herself a little shake. Not now. "How's — uh — Lyla doing?" she asked, to cover up the awkward zone-out. "I heard the words _autopilot_ and _I'm coming with you_ thrown around in there."

Diggle chuckled. "You know Lyla — she won't accept that she's staying behind until I'm already back from the mission."

"A wise woman," Nyssa interrupted, tossing a wrapped bundle onto Felicity's blueprints. Felicity yelped at the loud metallic clank they made upon landing — which suggested the bag was a _lot_ heavier than Nyssa's easy throw made it seem.

"Your wife knows you stand a better chance of emerging unscathed with her by your side," she said, smirking.

"Flattering," Diggle remarked. "What's in the bag, princess?"

Nyssa reached into the folds. "A wedding gift," she said, and drew a length of bright steel with a smile.

* * *

Oliver had already stretched out a hand to catch the blade, before Nyssa had even given any warning that she would throw it. The leather-wrapped grip landed in his palm with a faint slap, and Oliver twisted the blade around with a swish of steel.

"You really didn't have to," Felicity said, a hand over her mouth.

Their eyes met. More than anyone in the room, she had a reason to despise swords. She was the one who'd watched him get run through with one, and die from the wound in her arms. Ra's al Ghul's black sword, so often an appearance during nightmares, was a thing of itself, curved like a half-moon and colder than the void in his ageless eyes.

But Oliver knew Nyssa had given him something else. Unlike the arched League scimitars and curved _dao_ , the blade was as straight as an arrow and forged of steel as bright as silver. If League blades were made of shadow, this one was made of mist — lighter, quicker still — while lacking none of the deadly grace and perfect balance of its fellows.

Oliver switched hands, testing the feel of the blade and the fluid, clear sound it made when he swung it through the air.

"It's different," he said, more to Felicity than anyone else. "It's beautiful."

"It is the sword that can best Malcolm Merlyn," Nyssa assured him. "If you remember all you've been taught — of course."

Oliver slipped the sword back into its scabbard. "Of course," he agreed. "Thank you, Nyssa."

Nyssa inclined her head, and spread the bundle so that Roy and Thea could choose their weapons. As the others gathered around the table, Oliver saw Felicity slip quietly from her chair and duck through the curtain leading to the back of the plane.

Oliver followed her without hesitation. He pushed through the curtain unnoticed, and caught up just in time to see a glimpse of red vanish into one of the compartments. His first instinct was to listen for a sob, or any sign that she was still feeling sick, but all he heard was the faint sound of rummaging.

The narrow space she'd hidden in was some kind of miscellaneous storage compartment; there were medical supplies on the high shelves and unmarked boxes on the others. It didn't look any bigger than a hall closet, which was why Oliver only stood at the doorway and watched her.

She still hadn't changed out of the dress she'd worn to their wedding. His jacket was on a shelf by her elbow, and her back was to him, the delicate bones of her bare shoulders hunched around the bag she was searching.

"Felicity?" he said carefully. "Are you all right?"

She didn't look around, but she did start, as if she didn't think he'd come after her. "Mm-hm," she answered. "Fine. Just looking…for my…clothes. Contrary to what action movies have you believe, it's impossible to storm a ship wearing a dress and heels."

If her tone had been suspiciously bright before, it rang now of false optimism.

"Felicity," Oliver said, and it was all he needed to say.

_I'm here — you can always talk to me._

It was one of the things he loved most about her — about them. When it came to comfort, neither of them ever needed to ask.

"I don't like pointy objects," she said.

"I've noticed that."

"It shouldn't surprise me — _at all_ — that the queen of all assassins or — whatever her job title is — thinks that a big sword is a fantastic wedding present. Really, not at all." Felicity was now tugging furiously at the zipper on her dress. "No surprise. And I _know_ that I've been doing more than my fair share of the freaking out, but — _frack_ —" she dropped the bag with a curse, and Oliver moved immediately to help her.

Without him holding the door open, it shut behind them with a click, leaving them alone together in the small space. "It's okay," he said, bending down to pick up her bag. He set it on the shelf, and laid his hands briefly on her shoulders. "It's okay."

Felicity didn't move when he helped her with the zipper, sliding it down the length of her spine, his fingertips inadvertently brushing her bare skin as he did. Oliver shut his eyes, because it took all his self-control not to slide his hands inside the open dress to caress her waist, like he'd done so many times before.

They couldn't. Not like this.

"It's not okay," she whispered, as his breath stirred the loose hairs at the back of her neck.

Oliver opened his eyes, and he saw that Felicity was looking over her shoulder at him, her eyes bright. "It's not okay, Oliver."

"Felicity." Oliver knew better than to make promises he couldn't keep, so he folded his arms around her, kissing the side of her neck and cheek. "You know why I need the sword. Malcolm can't beat me with a bow and arrow, so he'll use a sword to try."

"I know why," Felicity said, her voice tight with frustration. "I know you're trained. I know you won't be alone, and _believe me_ , I know I'm being an idiot. A _crying_ idiot. But when I looked at that sword, all I saw was Ra's al Ghul stabbing you in the heart, and I just — _just_ —"

"Shh," Oliver said, his arms tight around her. "You care about us — all of us. There's nothing wrong with that."

" _Care_?" Felicity repeated. "I feel like it's the morning of my Signals Intelligence final at MIT and I spent the whole night watching funny animal videos instead of studying."

Oliver couldn't help but smile at the mental image. "True story?" he asked.

Felicity shook her head. "It was Information Security," she answered, with a sniff. "I still got an A for that one, though. I'm a little proud of that."

They both laughed at that, and Felicity turned slowly in Oliver's arms so they were face to face. She pulled him into a hug, her arms tight behind his neck. "I can't lose you," she breathed. "You know that."

"I can't lose you either," Oliver murmured. "But neither of us are good at staying out of a fight."

"No," she agreed. "We're both idiots with bossy consciences."

They were quiet for a little longer, both of them remembering another night before a battle, another fight neither of them could have left in good conscience. Ra's al Ghul, Damien Darhk…Oliver's ghost, now hers.

"I'm happy that we're married — I am," she said, against his skin. "But…"

Oliver nodded, his hand curled against the five raised scars marking her back. "But now it feels like there's more to lose," he finished, because he understood — God, he understood.

"Maybe that's not such a bad thing," Felicity said. She leaned back, and Oliver watched her lay a hand over his heart. "We're not gods. We can't run faster than the speed of light or bring down a building with a scream. If we get shot, we bleed just like everyone else. And we lose — and we _lose_ — the people we love."

Felicity's knuckles brushed his cheek, and he knew that she was thinking of the dead — his mother, his father, his best friend…the people who were gone but not forgotten, the people whose loss had almost made him stop believing that there was any other way.

"But that's all we can do sometimes. We're human, and that's what makes us strong. We're stubborn, we're reckless, and we're brave. The more we have to lose, the harder we fight. And that…makes _all_ the difference in the world."

Felicity was — as always — right, and not for the first time, Oliver marveled at her ability to make him see the world with such clarity, even when he knew that hers was far from it. Always, for him.

She tipped her head back and smiled at him, but a tear slid silently down the side of her cheek and quivered at the edge of her jaw. It would have been so easy just to dab it away with his thumb, but their proximity — the circumstances — _her_ — ignited a deep, powerful impulse in him, and he bent to touch his lips to the spot.

Instantly, he felt her whole body tense.

Oliver lifted his head — tasting the salt on his lips — to gauge whether she wanted him to stop. What he saw was the furthest thing from it. There was something heated and overpowering in Felicity's gaze as she backed towards the far wall, shrugging her shoulders out of the straps on her dress.

Oliver did stop — if only for the few seconds it took to lock the door. He reached behind and flicked the latch, all without taking his eyes from her. They didn't have a lot of time, and they knew better.

"We shouldn't," she said, as Oliver's hands slid down the wall on either side of her.

"No," he agreed, as his palms found the heat of her bare waist and Felicity arched instinctively under his touch, holding onto his shoulders while he pushed the dress down the length of her body. It caught a little around her hips, but Oliver freed it with a firm tug, and just like that — she was naked in his arms.

_Your turn._

Felicity breathed through her parted lips as she worked the zipper on his suit, and Oliver buried his face in her neck, content to let her take the lead. The gentle scrape of her nails informed him of her progress — collarbone to abdomen, hips to the inside of his thighs —

He groaned into her hair when she gripped him, his pulse throbbing in his ears. _Felicity._

" _Now_ ," she whispered, but Oliver didn't need to be told twice.

* * *

Felicity's shoe slipped off and hit the floor with a muffled thud when Oliver lifted her against the wall, pulling her thighs flush against his hips. They were both breathing hard with the effort of restraint, but Felicity was the one who smiled first, trailing her fingertips down the side of his face, because it _was_ their first time as husband and wife, after all.

Oliver dipped his head and kissed her — softly — as if they had all the time in the world, just to love each other through touch and whispers and sighs. Felicity closed her eyes and slid her hand low over Oliver's hard abdomen, traveling lower still between their bodies…she took him in her hand and Oliver gasped, his forehead pressed to hers.

It was an exquisite sound, and Felicity smiled at it, all the while guiding him towards her and then inside her. The connection was easily made, experience and practice lending themselves to the occasion — one of many, and hopefully not the last. Felicity relished the silkiness of it, the way the closeness of their bodies made them more shadow than shape, and the upturned curve to Oliver's mouth when their splayed fingers entwined on the wall above their heads.

The smallest movements drew helpless noises from them both, sensations building one on top of the other — pushing, _higher_ — despite their determination to prolong the end for as long as possible.

It came anyway.

They knew each other too well, and wanted each other too much. Restraint had never been an option, and it was even less so, now — when their bodies saw through the mind's denial of the truth, that there might not be a next time. Felicity squeezed their joined hands so tightly that it must have hurt Oliver, but she was already writhing from the effort it took to control herself, to stop her body from pushing past that last barrier. She was close — oh, so close — and it was too soon, too soon —

"I can't," Felicity choked, turning her head from side to side. "I can't — Oliver — I can't —"

Oliver stopped her words with a kiss, slow and unhurried, and she was startled by it — the surprising gentleness of his mouth on hers, when seconds before it'd felt like his touch was going to burn her up from the inside.

"Felicity," he breathed. There was a smile on his face, the same smile Felicity saw across the pillow in the mornings and before her eyes drifted shut at night, the same smile that said more than any endearment ever could.

Oliver was happy. Even thought it might be the last, oh God, he was happy. It was more than he ever thought he would have, infinitely more than he thought he deserved, and this — making love to her, his wife — it was something else they stood to lose.

But by God it was another reason for him to fight harder. He'd fight to love her, and she'd fight to wake up for the rest of her days with this man — her husband, _her_ Oliver.

"I love you," he whispered.

Felicity opened her eyes wide. "I love you," she whispered back.

By unspoken consent, they stopped holding back. Their hands curved over their heads, reaching high — then higher still — while Felicity opened herself to Oliver, accepting all that he could give her. It might be the last time, but that wasn't what mattered.

All of it — all of this — was just another reason why they couldn't let it end, why they were human, why they needed to be brave.

_This, and this, and this._

Felicity whispered Oliver's name under her breath like a prayer, a litany of the one thing that underscored everything else she couldn't bear to lose, and at the end, when she shook against him, moaning the garbled word into his neck, she knew — like it had been seared into her soul, blazing with the light on an unquenchable star — what she was going to fight for.

* * *

As wildly uncomfortable as the thought of her mother was at times like these, Felicity had to say that she'd been right. Locking the door was solid advice — for a pair of newlyweds with a serious problem when it came to keeping their hands off each other.

Not that Felicity was ever going to tell her. Although she _was_ going to put another dollar in the jar, for obvious reasons regarding Oliver's attentiveness as a husband. Maybe five, for a job _very_ well done.

There wasn't quite the space for two people to get dressed in the narrow compartment, which meant that Felicity — unfortunately wearing clothes again — was perched on a waist-height shelf, watching Oliver's bare shoulders disappear into his suit with a trace of regret, forgetting that she was meant to be (or at least playing pretend at) lacing up her shoes. Note to self —

"—undress husband in less confined space," she muttered, before she realized what she'd said.

Oliver looked over at her, a smile on his face. "What?"

"You heard me," she answered, despite the furious blush on her cheeks.

"I always hear you," he said, taking the shoelaces from her slack fingers and doing them for her. "I just like to hear you say it."

Felicity propped her knee up beneath her chin and blinked owlishly at him. "Say what?" she asked innocently.

"You know what."

Felicity was grinning now. "It'll cost you," she said, rocking back on her palms. "Dealer's choice, of _course_ —"

Playfulness sparked in Oliver's expression and she broke off when he grabbed her thighs and tugged her down from the shelf. Felicity yelped and pretended to fight him off, but she was laughing by the time he had her in his arms, carrying her like she weighed nothing at all.

They were breathless, flushed from laughter, and their mouths spilled open into a kiss — easy, languorous, something of habit rather than conscious thought. When it was over, Felicity brushed the stubbled corner of his jaw with her fingertips, biting her lip.

" _Husband_ ," she whispered, and watched his smile grow. "You're so cute when you're being proud."

"I _am_ proud," he said. "I have a brilliant — remarkable — brave —"

"— oh stop —"

"— _wife_ , who I love…more than anything and anyone else in the world." Oliver tucked a loose curl of hair behind her ear. "And I want her to know it — every single day, for the rest of our lives. Because that's what I'll take with me when we storm that ship, because — _that_ — is what makes all the difference in the world."

Felicity shook her head, smiling at Oliver's unfailing memory — and his ability to quote the things she said back at her with a straight face. That right there was one of the many reasons Oliver Queen was seriously a keeper.

"Fine," she said, with a sigh of mock-exasperation. "You wore me down, Oliver Queen. Screw twenty-five. Fifty years it is."

Oliver's smile was a beautiful thing, and Felicity felt warmed from head to toe even before he breathed, in a liquid, knee-melting whisper:

"Deal."

* * *

The cargo bay rumbled with the sound of thunder, nearly loud enough to drown out the bullet-like noises of rain hitting the hull of the plane. Ray looked a little pale in his suit, glancing intermittently out the window at the flashes of lightning that split the sky in jagged cracks.

Felicity chafed her hands together, trying not to bite her nails. "That's a lot of bad weather," she muttered.

Even Oliver — who wasn't usually Ray's biggest fan — stood by her side, watching with a concerned frown. "Rough seas," he agreed, and she saw him glance at the time. "Two minute warning."

"Any last words?" Roy asked, and immediately sustained a slap on each shoulder — one from Felicity, one from Thea. " _Ow._ "

The crease in Oliver's forehead deepened. "You don't have to do this," he said. "I know it's dangerous."

"Dangerous — is exactly what this suit is designed to handle," Ray answered, with a ghastly grimace that Felicity guessed was his not-so-successful attempt at a smile. "I can do this."

Oliver nodded, though he didn't look particularly reassured.

"Deck. Render. Virus. Hack," Ray muttered to himself, doing some kind of breathing pattern Felicity assumed was meant to stop the _oh-god-what-have-I-gotten-myself-into_ freakout. "Deck. Render. Virus. Hack."

"Hey," she said, touching his cheek. "You'll be okay."

Ray opened his eyes. "Really?" he said, at the exact moment another crack of lightning exploded outside. "Because I was _just_ starting to think what a horrible idea this was."

"That's a good sign," Felicity insisted, and Oliver gave her a look as if to say _what are you doing?_

"Definitely," she continued. " _Every_ successful plan in history started out with a smart person thinking that it was a bad idea. You're on the right track."

Ray made a face. "Huh. Those smart people didn't also jump out of a moving plane in a thunderstorm, wearing a suit that's basically lightning rod material, did they?"

Felicity hesitated. "You know, history's not really my forte."

Behind Ray's back, Oliver shook his head and stepped in for damage control. "Just remember your training," he said, in the level voice she recognized from Roy's first few tries out in the field. "If you get in over your head, keep calm, and let your instincts guide you."

Ray paused. "What if my instincts tell me to run screaming in the other direction?"

Oliver didn't even blink. "That's not who you are, Ray. You built yourself a suit because you couldn't stand by and watch innocent people get hurt — someone like that doesn't run at the first sign of trouble. I know I haven't said it as much as I should, but you deserve a lot of credit for that, and I have faith in you. You can do this."

"Whoa," Roy said, which just about summed it up for Felicity.

Seriously, what _had_ they talked about while she'd been stuck in wedding prep?

Ray took a deep, calming breath. "I can do this," he said. "Marriage really mellowed you out, you know. The old you would have shoved me headfirst out of the plane, suit or no suit."

Oliver gripped Ray's hand with a flicker of amusement. "Good luck, Ray."

Felicity held out the ATOM suit's helmet. "Go get 'em," she said, and kissed him on the cheek. "Don't die, okay? My wedding present."

Ray grinned at her through the visor. "Yes, ma'am," he said, and backed towards the bay doors.

Everyone took it as a signal to make sure they were holding onto something sturdy. Felicity grabbed a handful of netting securely in her fist, fixing her earpiece in place with the other. It would be the only line of communication between Ray and the rest of them, and it had never seemed more fragile.

Oliver had his hand on the controls. "Are you ready?" he said.

"No!" Ray shouted. "But go for it!"

Felicity swore Oliver rolled his eyes a little before he pulled the lever. Not that she had much time to dwell on it, because the moment the doors dropped, a spray of frigid seawater erupted in their faces, the wind practically howling at them to turn the frack around and head home.

Ray sounded like he'd swallowed a mouthful of rain. "Good thing my suit's waterproof!" he bellowed.

Oh frack. _Water resistant_ was one thing, but getting slammed around in a storm was _definitely_ another. "Is it?" Felicity shouted back.

"No idea," Ray said brightly, backing up a few paces as the thrusters in his suit powered up. "Now's a good time to find o _—_ _!_ "

The plane gave an almighty lurch, and Ray stumbled forward.

" _Ray —_ "

The momentum carried him straight through the open doors in a dive, but before Felicity could scream, he blasted off into the sheeting rain, a glimmer of pale blue in the murk — then he was gone.

Crisis averted.

Narrowly.

Roy coughed out some seawater. "Well, we're off to a _fantastic_ start."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credits to Pidanka and Klarolicityswan for the smutty push ;))))
> 
> \- Now, back to the regularly scheduled madness -
> 
> *FLAILING FROM THE SEASON 4 TRAILER*
> 
> *OLIVER'S RUNNING HOME WITH A SMILE*
> 
> *THEY HAVE A HOUSE* *A HOUSE*
> 
> *FELICITY'S HOLDING A BOOK CALLED COOKING TO IMPRESS*
> 
> *THE KISS*
> 
> Could have done without JR Bourne (love him) getting kicked in the nuts, but because Emily was doing the kicking - eh, why not. Badass.
> 
> I need a fic of this whole trailer. I can't wait five weeks to see it on my screen. Please and thank you!


	73. Headfirst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I know I'm super early this week, but I'm trying to write quick because I start school in two weeks and I WANT TO FINISH THIS (I really don't, but you get what I mean).
> 
> THAT NEW SEASON 4 PROMO THOUGH. SO. MUCH. OLICITY.

"This is _exhilarating._ " Ray's laugh sounded like it was coming from twelve leagues under the sea, but it was a lot more reassuring than fish noises, which would have been the DJ's Song of the Day if he'd face-planted into the ocean straight after taking off. "The ATOM doing first recon for the league. My inner eight-year-old is singing."

"That's really great, Ray," Felicity said, shaking her head as she worked to keep the signal from fraying. "But we can't see anything until you enable the visual uplink. You need to be our eyes and ears on the ship."

"Right, sorry — forgot. Got distracted by the flying."

Diggle gave a shake of his head. " _That's_ not good."

"He just has a short attention span!" Cisco said reproachfully. "You'd be distracted too if the waves were ten feet high and trying to pull you under."

"You say that like it's a good thing," Roy pointed out. "Please tell me that being pulled underwater is not a fantasy of yours."

"Are there mermaids in this scenario?" Barry asked. "Because Cisco _loves_ —"

"Can everyone —" Oliver said, enunciating each syllable with deliberate care "—please focus."

Everyone shut up with a variety of face-saving coughs and _hem_ s. Felicity accepted the uplink request and projected the view from Ray's visor above the table. The virtual mapping function showed him to be less than five hundred feet out. "You're approaching the south deck. Look for secure entryways."

"Yes, ma'am." Ray did a kind of spin in mid-air that made the view lurch a sickening one-eighty degrees before correcting. Felicity's stomach experienced an uncomfortable flutter ( _not now, nausea, not now_ ). "Are you seeing this, Cisco?"

"Ray," Oliver said. " _Focus_."

Felicity genuinely thought she spotted a vein in his forehead, but she settled for patting his back in consolation and turning back to Ray.

"Remember — unless you're sure they're HIVE agents, stun _only_. We're not killing anyone."

There was an electrical whine as Ray's suit armed itself. "Got it."

"No monkey business. No playing Robocop. You see a hostile, you stun them. I can't stress this enough — if the alarms go off, you'll be surrounded in seconds, and we're never getting on that ship, which barely scratches the surface of all the _not-nice_ stuff that's going to happen if you're caught. You _cannot_ be seen, okay?"

"No monkeying around. No gratuitous violence. Stun — be invisible. Did I get it all?"

Felicity exchanged a glance with Oliver, and caught the edge of a brief smile. _At least he does what he's told_.

"All right," she said again. "Go get 'em."

* * *

"What if they changed the rotation?" Felicity's fingers kept up a rapid staccato on the tabletop. "What if the weather means they've added extra security?"

With his experience in the field and extensive history of plans going wrong at a moment's notice, Oliver wasn't any less worried than she was, but it was exceedingly rare for him to be in the same room as Felicity during an operation — and he wasn't quite sure what to make of it. Ever since Ray's side of the comms had gone quiet, she'd kept up a steady muttering of worst-case scenarios and questions none of them wanted to think about the answers to.

"What if he gets caught?" she asked, under her breath.

"I'd be more worried if his suit backfires," Diggle said. "As smart as Ray is, his technology does _not_ have a reputation for working on the first try."

"That too," Felicity muttered, chewing on her thumbnail now.

Oliver narrowed his eyes. "Do you always get this anxious whenever I'm out in the field?"

Diggle — who'd stopped going into the field for a brief period after little Sara was born — snorted loudly, while Roy said " _right_ ", in a highly sarcastic way.

Felicity continued to drum her fingers on the table. "Translation — why do you think I'm always so enthusiastic during our _Welcome Home_ routine?"

" _TMI_ ," Thea said immediately. "That's a TMI warning."

"Sorry," they said, though neither — least of all Oliver — sounded particularly apologetic.

The rain was falling so heavily that the air in front of Ray's visor looked thick enough to pass as opaque. "Switching to infrared," he said. "Stand by for heat signature detection — _holy mother of f_ —"

"— would be putting it lightly," Felicity said, feebly.

Barry's mouth was wide open. " _That…_ is one big ship."

Oliver stared. In the nights since the island, he'd dreamed about the Amazo, the half-sunken wreck that had once been a torment of Lian Yu, but this was different. The Amazo had been streamlined, rudimentary, even — meant to slip by unnoticed and unseen.

What he saw now was infinitely more formidable. Even obscured by fog and rain, the ship was enormous. The lights from the windows flickered eerily in the grayish murk like flaming eyes, the deck and stern looming large through the mist like a ghost ship rising out of the water. Being equipped for stealth was merely a convenience, almost a formality, because it had clearly been built for something more than fast travel — to fight, not to outrun. Oliver's trained eyes could already spot half a dozen possible armaments on the north deck alone — though what they were in detail, he couldn't say.

Diggle could. "You see that?" he said, circling an elongated shape half-concealed by mist and shadows. "Torpedo tubes, surface vessel class. The Navy uses these on their warships. And those —" He gestured at something cylindrical on the upper deck "—are probably anti-aircraft guns. We can't risk a landing on the south deck with those on the watch. A mobile stealth suit is one thing, but an aircraft delivering eight people onto their doorstep? Bad idea."

"In other words, _not good_ — understatement of the century," Felicity said.

"Right," Diggle said, and she swore, loudly and with gusto.

"We can't parachute in this weather," Sara added. "Visibility's bad enough that we might be able to get close, just not close enough to drop us straight onto the ship."

"Which still gives us more time in the open sea, time we didn't plan for," Oliver agreed.

"Hold on," Barry said, obviously sensing where the discussion was headed. "First of all — I may be super fast, but that does _not_ work underwater. Second of all — I'm not great at swimming. I have a thing — with my legs — I just can't sync them up with my arms and I end up flailing a lot and hitting —"

"Don't worry, Barry, you're with me," Diggle said. "I promise I won't let you drown."

It struck Oliver that Felicity had been quiet for a while. He looked over, and saw her studying the torpedo tubes intently, with a look he'd seen before — countless times.

"Felicity," he said. "Do you have a plan?"

"Mm-hm," she answered, sounding far-off and preoccupied with thought. "But let's put a pin in that for later — because you are _not_ going to like it."

"That's reassuring," Ray crackled, making at least half of them jump. "Circling around to the south deck now, I'll just —"

"—Ray, watch out!" Felicity shrieked, as a piece of rigging narrowly missed his head.

"—sorry!" Ray sounded out of breath. " _Phew_ , that was close."

"Ray, your left — ten o'clock, guard approaching," Diggle said.

"What do I — oh, _right_ —"

There was a muted _zap_ and a faint thud of a body hitting the ground.

" _Nice_ ," Cisco said, appreciatively. "This is like _Mega Stealth Ninja III: Warship Apocalypse_. Did the guy drop any Ammo top-ups?"

Oliver ignored him.

"Not now, Cisco," Barry whispered.

Oliver and Diggle had both taken a side of the table, each of them scanning the perimeter for approaching threats. "Ray, on your seven — just rounding a corner," Oliver instructed. "On my mark: three, two, _one_ —"

The unsuspecting guard hit the steel floor with a smack.

"…two o'clock, he's about to turn — _now_." Diggle nodded approvingly when Ray hit him with the stunner.

And on it went, the both of them steadily helping Ray make his way from the deck to the interior of the ship.

"This is —" a quiet _pop_ and another thud "— so _cool_ —" something splashed overboard "— like the two of you — inside me —"

"—and that," Roy said, jabbing his thumb at the table, "is an image _none_ of us needed."

"It was cuter when I said it, right?" Felicity whispered nervously. "I mean, obviously not with Dig, because that'd be weird, but —"

Oliver raised his eyebrows at her, half his attention still on the lookout for threats, while the other half…he didn't want to say.

"—I'll ask later," Felicity agreed, and turned back to the mapping, which was still in the process of being completed. "Good work, Ray — but now you need to shrink, okay? I've found the security center on the map, you just have to get there without being seen."

"Right." Ray's back was to a wall now, the open entranceway to his right. He laughed nervously. "Let's just hope this works. Cisco? Could use a little reassurance here."

Cisco made a face. "Define _work_ ," he said, reaching for a tablet.

"Um…not blowing myself and my suit to very expensive smithereens."

"Oh." Cisco waved a hand dismissively. "Eighty-nine percent not going to happen."

"Huh." Ray sounded like he was trying to keep himself calm; his voice was easily a few octaves higher than it should have been. "Could have sworn it was ninety-four before I got onto the ship."

"Really?" Cisco was preoccupied with monitoring the ATOM suit's condition on a tablet. "Never noticed."

"But you _said_ —"

Caitlin seized the tablet from Cisco. " _Ray_ ," she said, soothingly. "Listen to me. The suit's fine. You'll be fine. Just remember —"

Cisco was still trying to get the computer back. Caitlin pinched him somewhere beneath the armpit that made him muffle a squeal into his hand, while she brought up the specs herself.

"— to keep calm. You ready to shrink, ATOM?" she said, the picture of cool and unruffled.

Felicity looked like she wanted to ask Caitlin to teach her the move, but wisely refrained from asking in front of Cisco, who was currently being tended to by a sympathetic-looking Barry.

"O-kay," Felicity said, turning back to the table. "Initiate in three — two —"

"— I'm _so_ going to regret not field-testing this —"

"— _one!_ "

The screen went black with a deafening shriek of static. Felicity tapped on the keyboard. "Ray?" she said, her voice fraying with worry. "ATOM. Come in, ATOM. Respond, ATOM — _Ray_!"

"Ray!" Oliver shouted.

"— _sorry, sorry!_ " Ray panted. The visual uplink flickered back online, showing the vast interior of a steel corridor — at least a few thousand times its usual size.

"You did it," Felicity breathed, as if she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. "Ray — it _worked_!"

"You are now the size of an ant," Caitlin concurred, her eyebrows in danger of disappearing into her hair. "This is a whole level of _wow_ , even for us."

Ray began to propel himself down the hallway. "My thrusters still work," he said, as they cut through the vast distance at high speed. A speck of dust passed them, looking as high as a small house. "And contrary to my earlier expectations, I do _not_ sound like a chipmunk. But this is so… _weird_. Like upside-down weird, except in this case, I'm —"

"We get it, Ray, it's weird," Diggle said, ever the pragmatist. "Get your ass down to security, and try not to start any fights with cockroaches, okay?"

* * *

Ray zapped a feebly-stirring guard in the gut with a stun blast. "I'm sorry, you want me to _what_?" he said, back to full size again and sounding like she'd just asked him to dance the can-can in front of her super villain dad (oh, the mental image alone).

" _Torpedo tubes_ , Ray," Felicity repeated patiently, ignoring the stares from everyone else. "Torpedo t—never mind, just plug me in and I'll do it myself."

"Marriage really changed you, Felicity," Ray said, shaking his head as he looked around for a USB port on the security controls. "Pre-wedding you would have explained the full details of your torpedo tube plan, using at least two awkward innuendos and a run-on sentence."

Felicity was already warming up. "There's a USB port under the console," she said, flexing her fingers. "Mama's been away from a keyboard for too long."

"Please don't call yourself _mama_ ," Roy said.

"There we go —" Ray plugged in the uplink, which immediately began its work on breaching the security firewall using two hundred undetectable access nodes —

"—I'm in!" Felicity announced.

"Already?" Ray was the only one who sounded shocked.

"You sound just like Oliver," Felicity said under her breath, and hiccoughed at the look Oliver threw her, a cross between _Felicity, not here_ and _you don't need to remind me_.

"Okay, we're going to need to get through the corridors and around the ship without being seen," Felicity said, her eyes darting all over the screen while she hacked. "But we can't down security completely or it'll look suspicious, which is where my program comes in. It accesses old security logs and archive footage to simulate full operational capacity, so anyone watching will _think_ that everything's functioning fine, but in reality —"

Felicity pressed _enter_ , and the screens flickered once — just a blip, but a telltale one. "The evil ship has officially gone dark," she declared. "Now, about those torpedo tubes…"

It was obvious that no one understood what she was talking about, until Felicity got into the weapons control and started rifling (metaphorically) through their various placements throughout the ship. Diggle nodded, with dawning understanding. "You don't mean the torpedo tubes on deck, do you?" he said, stressing the words _on deck_.

Felicity shook her head. "Nope."

Oliver leaned forward and studied the specs. "That could fit two people," he said calmly, indicating the tube's diameter. "And there's two…four…six…"

"Enough for all eight of us," nodded Felicity. "Like I said — _crazy_."

"I'm sorry," Barry interrupted. "But _what?_ "

* * *

A particularly vicious gust of wind rattled the cargo hold as Oliver slung his bow across his back and said to the others: "Gather 'round."

Barry craned his neck in the direction of the staircase leading to the main cabin. "Felicity's just —"

"—she's gone to get Lyla, I know," Oliver answered, and at once felt the atmosphere tense.

All eyes were on him, everyone's attention engaged. Good. Felicity would be back soon, and Oliver only had a short time to make sure everyone knew what they had to.

"Why," Diggle said, "do I get the feeling that you're about to say something absurdly self-sacrificing?"

"Because I am," Oliver said simply.

Roy sighed. "Go for it. We'll stop you."

"It's not about me," Oliver said, and saw a few raised eyebrows. "It's about Felicity. We all know the plan, but there's something else — something I'd like to ask of you… _all_ of you. The plan is to get Felicity up to control, because she is the only one who can stop Damien Darhk."

Nyssa — whether intentionally or not — flexed her sword hand. Oliver glanced at her.

" _Stop him_ ," he repeated, to emphasize the distinction, "doesn't mean just killing him. I know each of us — some more than others — has a reason to want Darhk dead."

Diggle met Oliver's gaze head-on, but he gave a slight nod of agreement. He knew the difference, he knew the cost.

"But to stop Damien Darhk — for real — and to have a _hope_ of stopping HIVE, we need Felicity to take on her father. Damien Darhk is only one member in the Council, and if even one of them is half as dangerous as he is — we'll only be doing them a favor by killing him. We need him alive, and the intel that he possesses. This league that we've started — the one we've all committed to — is going to face HIVE, one way or another. But if we kill Darhk we may be setting ourselves back by years, maybe even losing a crucial advantage — which is knowing what they know. So we _stop him_ by getting Felicity up to control…whatever the cost."

Thea sighed. "And _self-sacrificing_ begins in…"

"If at any point it looks like things are going badly —"

"—define _badly_ in our context," Roy said. "Our plans don't usually turn out the way they're supposed to."

Fair point. Oliver inclined his head. "If it looks like the way out is closing, and Darhk is nowhere near being caught — we get Felicity out of there, even if it means that one of us stays behind to help the others escape."

"Oliver, all of us here knows what it means to take one for the team," Diggle said. "You don't have to tell us. We know the risks."

Oliver shook his head, only once. "None of you will be taking that risk. If push comes to shove and things don't go our way — I'll stay behind to draw their attention. That's why I'm doing this now, because if the worst happens, I need you to get Felicity out. Tell her whatever you have to, just makes sure she — and all of you — live to fight another day."

"And we thought he'd say something stupidly self-sacrificing," Barry said, with a forced smile.

Sara only cocked her head in the same bird-like manner that meant she saw through him. "What makes you think Darhk doesn't know what capturing you will do to Felicity?" she asked, point-blank. "I'm the one who's actually seen him work, and there's nothing he won't use in the game — even his daughter's husband."

"You're assuming I'll let myself be taken alive," Oliver said, just as frankly.

Silence, and only Nyssa was bold enough to break it.

"Any harm done to you will have a rather aggravating affect on Felicity," she observed. "You _have_ accounted for that in your plans, have you not?"

"I have," he agreed. "She'll get angry. Angry enough to make sure Damien Darhk never stands a chance. If something happens to me, it'll serve a purpose."

"So — _not_ — a complete loss," Nyssa said, with the kind of demeanor that made it almost impossible to tell if she was serious.

"Yeah, that's not happening," Diggle said bluntly. "I'm not leaving my brother behind to die — not again, Oliver — and I can't believe that you of all people would ask me to."

"John, you're my best friend, and you _know_ how much I want to walk out of this with Felicity. You of all people know what she means to me, and that I would _never_ do this — if there was any other way."

Oliver held Diggle's gaze, and he did so unflinchingly. "I trust you to understand when there isn't," he said. "I trust — you."

Diggle looked like he wanted to hit Oliver. "I hate it when you say things like that," he said. "I really, really do."

"Ollie!" Thea said indignantly. "No, no — _no_."

"Speedy — please." Oliver caught his sister's arms before she could hit him. "I know you'll take care of Felicity if anything happens to me."

Not unlike himself, Thea could be extraordinarily stubborn when it came to the people she loved, and Oliver could tell that she wasn't going to let it end that way, whatever the cost.

"It won't happen," she said, very quietly. "I'll make sure it doesn't."

"And I love you for never giving up on me," Oliver answered. "But if the choice came down to Felicity and myself, I know the choice I can live with — and the last thing I want is for you to blame Felicity."

Thea glared back, but a second later she had him in a tight embrace. "I'd never blame her," she said. "I'd just be completely, freaking, _pissed_ at you. It's not going to happen, Ollie. Trust _me_ on that."

Oliver didn't say anything, but he hugged his sister tight. There was an ache — somewhere in his heart — at the unforgivable act of making his sister choose between himself and Felicity. But his sister was someone he trusted without question to take care of his wife, and that was why he hadn't sent her away. If something did happen to him, she needed to know that it was his choice, no one else's.

"We're all taking a substantial risk here," Oliver said, turning back to their friends. "And this is only the last — absolute last — resort. Chances are it won't come to this, but if it does — I'm asking you to remember why we all signed up. Protecting Felicity is our best shot at making sure Damien Darhk is beaten for good, and we owe everyone in Starling that, at the very least."

"You _do_ know that we won't let it happen, right?" Roy said. "You trained me — and if I've learned anything from you, it's that we always find another way. Felicity's important, but you're both stronger together, and it'll be a cold day in hell before any one of us willingly leave one of you behind — not after what happened in the Foundry."

"What he said," Barry added. "It's cute that you have a contingency plan, but it's also pretty stupid that you thought we'd actually go along with it."

Oliver opened his mouth, and closed it again. "I can't tell any of you what to do anymore, can I?" he said, resigned.

Diggle slapped his back. " _That_ …is how democracy works. Nice try, man, but no one's getting left behind. Besides," he said, shouldering his pack, "if anyone can manage that, it's us. So unless you want your wife of four hours to murder you in front of your wedding guests, I say we put this conversation to bed — _now_."

As if on cue, the door at the top of the steps banged open, admitting Felicity and Lyla, who were helping Caitlin and Cisco with the gear.

"Look who finally decided to let ORACLE steer," Lyla said, stretching her back. "See, Cisco? We're not dead yet."

Cisco shook his head over the masks he was passing out. "These are Poseidon rebreathers," he explained. "You bite down on the plastic, and — obviously — try not to breathe through your nose. Because that's how people drown. You won't need oxygen tanks, and since you're only swimming less than point-two miles, these'll keep you alive until—"

"— I send the signal and Ray lets us into the ship," Felicity finished, passing out the last one to Thea.

"Yeah…" Roy said, his tone making it absolutely clear the level of faith he had in Ray. "About that — are we really sure we want to do this?"

Felicity sighed, passing the strap of the mask past her face so it hung below her chin, ready to be pulled up before they jumped. "No," she said. "But do we ever have any better ideas?"

Oliver examined the rebreather. It was surprisingly light, meant to fit around the lower half of their faces, covering the nose and mouth while somehow providing a supply of air.

"Compressed oxygen," Cisco said, indicating the canister on the front of the mask. "The mechanism also draws oxygen from the surrounding water and recycles the air you breathe, which —"

"—should keep us alive, I know," Oliver finished, and although he knew the answer, he felt like he needed to ask. Just on the off chance that he was wrong.

"These are prototypes, aren't they?" he said, weighing one in the palm of his hand.

Cisco held up two fingers. "Do you want the honest answer or the answer that's going to make you feel better about jumping headfirst into miles of open sea?"

" _You have reached your destination_ ," ORACLE announced, but only Cisco jumped this time.

"I _hate_ that," he muttered.

Oliver looked around, hearing more than ever the shrill whistle of the wind outside the plane, and the uncertainty of what they were about to do.

But when were they ever?

"It's time," he said.

* * *

Oliver was standing with his back to Felicity when she joined him, right where the bay doors would shortly drop open and release them into the water. Bad, _bad_ idea.

"Between this and the pit — I'm not sure which I hate more," she said, with a shaky laugh.

The look on Oliver's face was enough of an indicator that he agreed, but him being the emotionally accessible type, he settled instead for helping her put on the rebreather, settling the edges of the mask snugly over her mouth and nose.

By some tacit agreement, she was still wearing his jacket over her clothes, and he smoothed down the shoulders in a way that was starting to strike her as habit before pulling her gently towards him.

"Hey," he said, and their foreheads touched, igniting flickers of past kisses and old intimacies (God, why was she thinking of this _now_?) behind her closed eyes.

"At least we're together," he said, and she felt a smile tug at her mouth — small, but genuine nonetheless.

"Good way to start a marriage," Felicity agreed, and opened her eyes in time to catch Oliver's smile.

Everyone took their places by the doors — Felicity with Oliver first, followed by Diggle and Barry, Thea and Roy, Sara and Nyssa bringing up the rear.

"Now might not be the best time to ask," Felicity said, looking from one to the other. "But is anyone _not_ a swimmer?"

A murmur of laughter traveled around the group.

"Good luck, you guys," Caitlin said, her hands clasped nervously in front of her.

"Try not to break my toys," Cisco added.

Lyla kissed her husband goodbye and whispered something to him before stepping back. "Come back alive, Johnny," she said, her hand on the controls. "That's an order."

Diggle nodded. "Yes, ma'am," he said, and they shared a smile.

Lyla depressed the same lever Oliver had pulled, not an hour ago, and the doors slammed open to a blast of wind strong enough to yank Felicity's head back — more than just a little.

_Such a bad idea._

"Good luck!" Lyla shouted. "I'll see you soon!"

Felicity's insides twisted uncomfortably, her heart hammering loud enough to give off its own homing signal.

"Three —"

Oliver's fingers slipped between hers, giving them a reassuring squeeze.

"Two —"

Felicity closed her eyes and took a deep breath to steady herself. She'd led them into the pit the last time, seemed only right that Oliver got his turn.

She just really hoped the water wasn't as cold as it looked.

"One —"

The rain-slicked steel left Felicity's feet when she jumped, plunging towards the ink-black, storm-tossed water that rushed up to meet them. At first, it was an explosion of sound: rattling metal, shrieking wind, the frayed hum of lightning, then —

They crashed into the churning water and sank below the surface to perfect silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *mini freakout*
> 
> Mission Impossible 5 just came out in China and HOLY HELL THAT IS ONE GOOD MOVIE. I love Rebecca Ferguson from the White Queen and I'm so happyyyyy that she was the perfect badass. *happy flailing*
> 
> Fic recs:
> 
> Haven't had much time to read, but MachaWicket's Green Foliage, Pink Flowers is a really cute ficlet inspired by the Olicity domesticity in the trailer. Really cute, really sweet, happy stuff.


	74. A Good Start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Advance warning: things will get crazy in this chapter. Like, crazy, crazy. It might be inspiration or madness, but I'm pretty sure it's madness. (Apologies)
> 
> Side note: It was really great listening to "Chasing Twisters" by Delta Rae and "This Is War" by 30 Seconds to Mars while writing this. :DDDD

Felicity's head broke the surface with an explosive gasp. She yanked the air mask from her face and groped blindly at the slick, curving walls.

"Oliver?" she sputtered. " _Oliver?_ "

There was a faint crack, and a greenish light bloomed from her far left, just by the outer door. Before Felicity could even begin to feel apprehensive (or imagine weird glowing fish with razor-sharp fangs), Oliver erupted from the water, half-submerged and dripping, discarding his rebreather as he raised the green flare above his head.

"Are you all right?" he said, reaching for her. His hand felt burningly hot to her icy face; it bumped her throat and shoulder before he managed to wrap an arm around her waist to stop her from sliding along the metal tube.

"I've got you," he said, while she shivered. "I've got you."

" _Really…_ out of practice," Felicity panted, the muscles in her legs burning from the swim. "Water…not really…my thing. Does…being…all muscle…help?"

Oliver laughed, scattering them both with seawater. Felicity grinned and wrapped her arms around his neck, holding tight to him in the icy cold. They were both treading water, trying to get their bearings in the claustrophobic space. The flare in Oliver's hand cast deep shadows all the way along the elongated tube, smooth and unlined like the inside of a pipe, meant to be loaded with torpedoes for underwater launch.

The on-deck armaments made it impossible for them to approach from the skies, so they'd gone another way. The underwater, enter-by-torpedo-tube way. Unorthodox — sure. Crazy — definitely.

Effective — remained to be seen.

"Are you all right?" Oliver asked again, probably because Felicity's teeth were chattering worse than when she'd gotten out of the pit.

Felicity nodded hastily. "D-do you think the others m-made it?" she asked, as the minutes crept by, marked by the steady _drip-drip_ of water running from the walls and ceiling.

Oliver shook his head. "I don't —"

If there was a sound, Oliver was the first to hear it. He turned his head suddenly, staring at the inner door like he'd picked up something besides the sound of their breathing.

"Felicity," Oliver said, as there was a deep, shuddering crank.

She tightened her grip on his sleeves and instinctively sucked in her breath as the water began to shift, drawn by some invisible current towards the door. The far side of the tube was bubbling; white froth surged towards them, propelling their bodies backward. Felicity heard Oliver grunt when he hit the steel — she cried out a second later when her shoulder collided with a metal corner — the water was still rising, almost above their chins now, and the door —

Oliver's arms were around her waist when he twisted abruptly, angling himself parallel to the walls. Felicity followed suit, realizing what he was trying to do. The water crushed them against the door, and they gave a huge heave against the steel at their backs, praying it would give —

It did — with a gigantic, painful grinding of hinges and steel. The metal rushed away from beneath Felicity's hands and she surged straight out of the tube with the flood of water, spilling out in one great gush across the dark floor.

Felicity flung her hair out of her face, her palms sliding across the slick metal when she tried to rise. "Oliver? Are you —?"

"—yeah," he coughed, flat on his back beside her. "Are you?"

"Fantastic," she muttered.

There was a wet slapping sound, like someone had spat out a mouthful of water. " _I'm_ not!" Barry said hoarsely. "That was —"

"— _awesome_ ," Roy and Thea said together, disentangling themselves from a heap on the floor.

"Debatable. Everyone okay?" Diggle groaned, helping Barry to stand.

Felicity blinked the stinging water from her eyes as she counted. "John — Sara — Nyssa — _good_ —" She sagged in relief, flopping onto the wet floor again. "You're all here."

"Rather clever," Nyssa remarked, apparently oblivious to the chill and/or the steady streams of water running from her armor. "Well done, Sa'ida. We appear to have boarded your father's ship without detection."

Thea gave a faint _woo-hoo_. "Yay us," she said.

Felicity raised one finger. "Just…for the record…the next time I suggest that we all take a little dip in the middle of a thunderstorm and swim up to a ship via the back way — so to speak — please, _please_ , turn me down."

That drew some laughs from her friends, the _I'm-still-kinda-out-of-breath_ , _can't-believe-we're-still-alive_ type of wheezy laughter. Her favorite kind. Diggle nodded, unzipping his pack. "Noted," he said, bringing out his rifle. "Anyone still feel like storming a ship?"

"Right here," Roy grunted, clambering to his feet.

 _If_ there had been a Coolest Landing Competition and _if_ they'd all been playing — Sara would have won hands-down, probably without even trying. The Bo staff unleashed was six feet of black iron menace as she rose from her lithe crouch, scanning both sides of the long corridor for hostiles. The collar Cisco made for her gleamed at her throat, a reminder that she was a metahuman now, and they were hunting the person who'd turned her into one.

"We should move," she said. " _Now._ "

Felicity nodded tiredly and reached for her earpiece. "Just…give me a minute."

* * *

"We may have a problem," Ray said, over the comms.

"What — just the one?" Felicity answered, as they crept through the bowels of the ship.

She was following the new map on her tablet, taking the least occupied pathways from the torpedo room to the hangar, which was stop number one on their _Ruin Damien Darhk's Evil Plan_ ship tour, namely because of the hundred or so drones nestled in their slots, awaiting launch.

Somehow Felicity guessed that Ray was about to put a damper on one of said stops.

"You know how we were going to hack into the drones from weapons command and disable them?" Ray said.

"Uh-huh."

"You know how I've been running your hack for the last half-hour?"

"I do recall that, yes."

"You know —"

"—Ray, I came up with the plan!" Felicity said, in a loud whisper. "Assume for argument's sake that I'm familiar with the minutia!"

" _Shhh_ ," Barry hissed, a finger to his lips.

Felicity resisted the urge to give him another kind of finger. Roy was smirking, probably because he lived off of chaos, anarchy, and listening to one of his least favorite people get chewed out over the comms.

"Ray," Oliver interrupted. "What's wrong?"

"The hack isn't working." Felicity could hear the sound of typing in the background, along with the intermittent beeps of her hack being rejected by the system. "I found out why. Drone control is being locked down by central command, biometric access only, and we can't get to them for deactivation, unless —"

"—Damien unlocks them himself," Felicity said, and cursed under her breath. "He took a leaf out of Amanda's book. Biometric access isn't something ORACLE can crack."

"Don't take this the wrong way," Thea said, "but I _hate_ your dad."

"Join the club," Felicity muttered, knocking her fist against the wall as she thought.

Drones on lockdown — biometric access — her dad was the only one authorized… _if_ he activated them and _if_ she was at the computers when he did…

She'd barely opened her mouth before Oliver shook his head. He already knew what she was thinking. "That's thirty seconds, maybe a minute."

"I know," Felicity agreed. "Too risky."

"Failsafe."

"But what?"

"Do they always do this?" Barry asked, looking between Oliver and Felicity. He might as well have been speaking Hungarian, for all the attention they paid him.

"Sabotage," Diggle said, suddenly.

"Not you too," Barry groaned.

"We don't have enough C4," Oliver replied. "There's some in my arrows, but —"

"—landing gear," Diggle returned. "Can't take off, can't —"

"—kill innocent people," Felicity finished. "This may be a stupid question, but do you remember how to sabotage unmanned combat aerial vehicles?"

Diggle produced a knife with a flick of his hand. "Like it was yesterday," he said, with a faint smile.

Oliver nodded. "Then let's move," he said. "Six hours to sunrise."

* * *

"I feel like this should be some kind of treason," Felicity muttered, as Oliver tampered methodically with the landing gear of the fourth drone they'd come across. It was slow work, not helped at all by the fact that they had a teammate (Barry) who redefined _graceless_.

Thank god they had two trained assassins (three, including Oliver) on their team. Their lightning-fast reflexes had done the job, and Roy had last been seen dragging two unconscious guards to a barricaded closet.

Felicity glanced back at her tablet, working on breaching flight systems for the few actual planes in the vast hangar. Those, she could remote ground easily, crossing off another of her dad's escape options and/or means to transport soldiers back to Starling. She checked the cockpits and interior for anyone they needed to knock out, but they were empty cargo planes. One of them was storage for absolutely nothing, the other one had some crates, the other had a couple of motorcycles and what looked suspiciously like RPGs.

Because evil mind-controlled soldiers really wanted to make a splash.

"Sixth one down," Diggle whispered over the comms. "Moving to east quadrant. Am I in the clear?"

Felicity huddled in the drone's shadow and flicked through the security footage. "Guard on your six, back turned. Easy hit."

"Roger that." There was a vague sound of Diggle breaking into a run, a hoarse breath of surprise when the guard realized what hit him, and a low _pop_ as said guard slipped into the realm of unconsciousness, a nano-tech bullet in his neck. "Thanks, Felicity."

"No problem —" A dark shape bloomed across the floor and Felicity spun, a yell in her throat —

Nyssa's hand clamped tight over her mouth. "Calm yourself, Sa'ida," she said, pushing back her hood with an amused gleam in her eye. "I merely came to offer my assistance."

Felicity removed Nyssa's glove from her jaw, still feeling an unpleasant hammering sensation in her throat. "Where's Sara?"

"Ta-er al-Sahfer has gone to aid Oliver's sister. There are still guards lurking in every corner — you would do well to have someone guarding your side."

Felicity waved sarcastically. "Hi there."

"I mean no disrespect to your abilities, Sa'ida," Nyssa purred. "But you startle, _far_ too easily."

Felicity made a face and ducked back into the shadows. "Fair enough."

Oliver straightened up, the flechette he'd been using to sabotage the landing gear still in his hand. "You can get that one," he said, indicating the next drone with his chin. "I'll just —"

Nyssa and Oliver turned at the same time. A flicker of steel left her fingers right as the flechette left his, and their weapons simultaneously pinned a guard's reaching hand to the wall (with a nausea-inducing squelch), stopping it just shy of the alarm.

Before the guy could process the fact that he'd have two interesting scars to share at parties, Nyssa had already strode over and kicked the side of his head, knocking him out cold.

"Seems a little excessive," Felicity commented, watching her stick him with a nanite injector.

"Perhaps," Nyssa said unconcernedly, before curling her fist around their weapons and yanking.

The knife and flechette came free with another wet sound, and Felicity coughed into her fist as the hand slid back down the wall, smearing blood in one bright streak. Nyssa tossed the flechette back to Oliver, who wiped it down and crouched to work on another drone.

"How many are we at?" he asked.

Trying not to think about the gross implications of _that_ , Felicity glanced back at her tablet. "Twenty-two out of a hundred and eleven," she said. "And we still haven't been found. I mean, I'm usually the optimist here, but this seems to be going _way_ too well."

"Are you complaining?" Oliver asked, with a raised eyebrow.

"God no," Felicity said, grounding the last plane. "But I keep waiting for the signal to run —"

There was a short yell of surprise across the hangar, followed by a loud ( _too loud_ ) thud that echoed from floor to ceiling. Nyssa was at the railing in seconds, searching the ground for the source of the scuffle.

"It appears one of us has been careless," she said, fitting an arrow to her bow. "We've been —"

A bullet pinged off the steel bar beneath her hands, sparking off the spot where her hands had been just seconds before.

"—discovered," Nyssa spat, and grabbed the rail. Before Felicity could shout, she'd catapulted herself from the balcony in a swirl of black and scarlet, landing gracefully at ground level to return fire.

Oliver reached for his bow. "I think that would be the signal," he said, as the alarm began to wail.

"Just like old times," Felicity answered, over the sound of gunfire that announced the arrival of soldiers intent on killing them

A volley of bullets smashed through a window above their heads, and Felicity ducked as Oliver shielded her with his body. She could sense him looking rapidly to gauge their surroundings; blank-faced guards were marching in from either sides of the balcony with machine-like purpose, about to trap them in the middle. Three on the left, four on the right — either way, they were trapped.

Sparks rained down on them when more bullets ricocheted off the drones. They were backed into the railing now, the steel digging into their spines. "Do you trust me?" Oliver shouted.

Felicity grabbed onto Oliver's shoulders and felt his arm tighten around her waist. "Why do I have a feeling that we've done this befo—"

She never finished the _déjà vu_ thought, because Oliver had grabbed onto the railing with one hand and flipped them both off the side with the other, holding her to him as they fell through the air.

It was an instant of sickening weightlessness before their feet smacked the ground in a landing, but before Felicity could digest the fact that they'd just done a one-eighty flip off a balcony, more gunfire forced her into a run, Oliver at her side.

The bulk of the fighting seemed to be concentrated near the back of the hangar, where Diggle and the others were currently holding off a dozen guards, either side using the drones as cover against unfriendly fire.

"What happened?" Oliver demanded, thrusting Felicity behind him before he shot, taking down two soldiers in quick succession.

"A guard tackled Barry from behind — took him straight off the ledge," Diggle explained, picking off the guards on the surrounding balcony with sharpshooting precision. "Two floors. He landed hard on his leg — might be a break. It'll heal, but not fast enough."

"Where is he?" Felicity asked, releasing the safety on the gun Diggle had given her.

Diggle gestured at the plane behind their backs. "Thea's with him. We'll buy you guys some time, but we need to start moving — or we'll be fenced in."

"I may be able to lock down the hangar, cause a distraction — _argh_ _—!_ " Felicity dodged a shot — one that almost clipped the side of her skull.

She'd barely even raised her gun to fire back before Oliver whirled — a positively dangerous expression on his face — and took down the offending soldier with three nanite arrows in the chest, followed by a full-body throw that slammed him headfirst into the wall.

"Oliver!" Felicity said, both horrified and mildly touched. "Priorities!"

"He shot at you," Oliver said, and — as if the point wasn't clear enough — added, "he shot at my wife."

Felicity jumped to her feet and kissed him full on the mouth. "Buy us some time," she said. "I'll get Barry."

He nodded, and gave her a push towards the plane. "Go!"

* * *

"I'm not gonna lie, Oliver — this doesn't look good," Diggle said, ducking as a bullet pinged off a corner near his head. "How many?"

Oliver fired an arrow around the plane's wing and took cover against the next round of gunfire. "Five," he answered, and frowned, in the middle of reaching up to his quiver. "I thought you told me that if anyone could manage this, it was us."

"I did," Diggle agreed. "I just wanted to make sure you weren't having any sacrificial thoughts — staying behind to make sure all of us get out, and whatnot."

Oliver loosed a jettisoning arrow at one of the soldiers on the balcony. "Not at the moment," he said. "There's another way out of this — we just haven't thought of it yet."

Diggle chuckled, taking down another soldier with a well-aimed shot. " _That's_ the spirit."

"Uh — problem, big problem," Ray said, over the comms. "Whatever you guys are doing, I hope you're not still in the hangar. There's a wave of reinforcements crossing the north deck — headed your way. ETA two minutes. You guys need to get out, _now_."

"Copy that," Oliver said, and turned back to Diggle. "We need to get Felicity out of here. If the soldiers take us, they won't be heading to control."

" _Us_?" Diggle gave him a look. "Pretty sure Darhk's orders only extend to keeping the Oracle alive. You and me — not so much."

Sara's scream blasted through the hangar, rattling every bone in Oliver's body and — from the feeling of it — flattened whatever soldiers had been in their way, leaving a ringing silence in its wake.

"Why didn't you _lead_ with that?" Roy said, nursing a minor cut on his arm.

Sara skidded off the hull of the plane, landing beside them with her staff. "Boys, you heard Ray — they're sending backup. Nyssa and I can cover you, but I hope you have a fantastic way to outrun them, because Barry can't take all of you at once."

The plane doors dropped open, and Felicity emerged from the back with Barry and Thea. The former was still pale and limping slightly, but he met Oliver's gaze stubbornly. "I can feel it healing," he insisted. "But it's — _ah_ — stopping me from using my speed. I just need a few minutes."

"We're screwed," Thea translated.

"We could take cover inside the plane," Roy suggested. "Should hold up against gunfire."

"We'll be sitting ducks in there," Diggle said, with a shake of his head. "We need to move fast."

Felicity held her arms out. "Not an option — all we have back there are a couple of motorbikes, but we can't use them here."

Silence.

"How many?" Oliver asked.

Felicity must have recognized the expression on his face, because she made a noise that was a cross between a snort and a laugh. " _No_ ," she said. "No way."

* * *

"Charting us a flat course to control," Felicity said, tapping on her tablet behind Oliver's back. "For the record — as your partner _and_ as your wife — I do _not_ think this is one of your best ideas. And that includes the time you pulled me out of a glass window holding nothing except a chain."

"Noted," Oliver said. For someone who was about to give one hell of a spin to the meaning _off-road riding_ , he was going through the motions of being a responsible motorbike rider (minus the helmet and the optimal safety conditions) with meticulous care.

Which was reassuring.

Not.

He checked the brakes on the motorbike and revved it once, and Felicity felt the engine hum beneath her legs. "Get ready," he said, and heard the others do the same.

Thea and Roy were on the second bike, Diggle was on his own on the third. Barry, Sara, and Nyssa were staying behind to draw the attention of the reinforcements and to cover their exit.

"They're here," Sara called, pressed to the wall on the left side of the plane doors with Barry. Across from her, Nyssa nodded.

Felicity wrapped her arms around Oliver's middle, her stomach doing uncomfortable flips (not _skips_ , those were happy) at the thought of what they were about to do. "I can't believe we're doing this," she whispered.

"Felicity," Oliver said, revving the engine, "hold on to me tight."

" _Now!_ "

The doors dropped open and Oliver went full throttle, bursting out into the hangar with a squeal of burning tires. All Felicity could really see was the top of Oliver's broad shoulders, which helped a little, but did _nothing_ to detract from the reality that she could feel every sickening lurch and bend they took — and they took _a lot_ of those.

Behind them, the wailing shriek of the Canary Cry was accompanied by the explosive sound of a few drones being blasted across the room. Even though it was the worst possible time, Felicity felt herself smile at the sheer _awesomeness_ of having a friend who could upend solid objects with a scream. Their friends were going to be just fine.

Oliver snaked around a row of drones and emerged on a collision course with the line of incoming reinforcements, but surprise had its desired effect — and they scattered, clearing the hangar entrance for three bikes moving at high speed.

Someone whooped when they cleared the entranceway, and they were off. Felicity bent over the tablet screen, tracking their progress across the map and shouting instructions. So far, they'd managed to avoid the bulk of the resistance, probably because said resistance hadn't really anticipated that they'd take a bike ride through their ship at irresponsible speeds.

They took a hallway, a downward staircase (that one was _really_ fun), and a tight bend without encountering trouble — but that didn't last.

"Left!" Felicity shouted again. "Four hostiles!"

Oliver nodded, and they heard gunfire even before they rounded the corner.

"Hold on!" he shouted, and Felicity just barely managed to tighten her arms around him before they lurched, the front wheel completely leaving the ground as the bike reared up on its back wheel, deflecting the bullets off the steel underside.

"Speedy!" Thea was overtaking them, Roy standing up behind her with his bow drawn. Without so much as a wobble, he fired an explosive arrow that knocked the soldiers clean off their feet, and they raced through the corridor.

"They're on our tail!" Diggle shouted, twisting around to fire at the soldiers in pursuit.

"There's an elevator after this, but —" Felicity ducked as sparks rained down on them from pursuing fire, "— the intersection — _gah_ — hostiles waiting!"

Diggle almost overcorrected, half his attention on firing behind him and the other half steering through what was probably the least safe obstacle course in their history of bike-riding.

"John!" Felicity yelled, as his balance wavered.

Diggle revved the throttle and caught up, but the soldiers were still on their tail. "I'm good! Keep going!"

Felicity didn't quite know what made her do it — maybe she figured nothing else could go wrong, since they were already pushing their luck in the safety department — but she slipped the tablet inside her jacket and reached for her gun with her free hand.

"What are you doing?" Oliver shouted, when she ducked under his arm, climbing around the seat.

Felicity laughed, which sounded insane to her own ears — but then again, she was in the process of swinging her leg across her husband's lap and reaching over his shoulders with the other.

"Maybe in five to ten years, I'll consider this a bad idea," she explained, most of her attention devoted to _not_ losing her footing on a speeding bike while trying to straddle her husband, "but for now — I _really_ hope I can aim on a moving vehicle."

Oliver — thank _god_ — understood, and put on more speed, putting his concentration into getting them to the elevator as soon as possible. Felicity kissed him roughly on the cheek and raised her gun behind his back, squinting against the hair blowing around her face from the backdraft. Understandably, the first one missed — but it didn't hit Diggle, which was a win, as far as she was concerned. Felicity caught her friend-slash-gun-instructor's grin as he bent low over his bike, swerving around to give her a clear view of her targets.

Even though Felicity's gun was firing non-lethal nano-tech bullets, she still kept her aim in the strictly hinder-and-disable territory. The second caught one of them in the shoulder. The third clipped a gun arm, the fourth — Felicity never saw, because they sped into the intersection and she sensed movement in her peripherals —

She turned just in time to avoid a grasping hand — a bullet pinged off the ceiling — she yelped — the guy had caught the rear of the bike —

"Felicity!"

She recognized Oliver's warning and grabbed onto him as the bike screeched into a sharp turn, slamming the unwanted carry-on into the wall. Felicity thrust him off with a well-aimed kick to a _really_ sensitive place and they raced onward. The elevator mechanism was hacked and ready for them — the three bikes slammed one after another into the massive carriage, and the doors slid coolly shut against the pursuing guards.

The steel floor creaked, and they began to rise. All five of them were out of breath, and Felicity pushed the mess of hair back from her face, her pulse still hammering from what they'd just done.

"That," Thea said, "was _awesome_."

Diggle gripped Felicity's shoulder, and she nearly winced from the amount of adrenaline firing all cylinders inside her veins. "Nice shooting back there," he said.

"Had a good teacher," Felicity panted. "Did I pass?"

Diggle smiled. "Flying colors."

"Everyone all right?" Oliver asked, checking all of them visually for signs of hurt before he turned back to Felicity, touching her cheek. "Are you—?"

Felicity nodded, reaching underneath the hood to feel his pulse. "You?"

Oliver laughed weakly and wrapped her in a fierce hug. "I can't believe you did that. You're —"

"—going to be in _so_ much trouble if my mom ever finds out I shot a gun from the back of a speeding bike," Felicity finished. "Let's just make this our little secret, okay?"

There was so much pride in Oliver's eyes that Felicity wanted to feel his forehead to check that he wasn't running a fever, or suffering from some good old-fashioned oxygen-deprivation-induced loopiness, but she never got the chance to ask — because he leaned forward and kissed her full on the mouth, with enough enthusiasm to induce a mock-gagging noise from Roy.

"Guys," Thea said. "PG-13."

Oliver pulled back — non-apologetic to the end — and Felicity swore he winked at her. She grinned back, because it was _so_ purely them — life-threatening missions and horribly-timed romance. A _fantastic_ start to a marriage.

"Okay," he said, in a low voice that made her think he meant _later_.

Much, much later.

A crash of lightning made them all look around. The storm was getting close — rain was seeping through the seam between the elevator doors on the opposite side of the ones they'd come through.

"You all ready?" Diggle asked, revving his bike's engine.

Felicity checked her tablet again. "We want to get across the south deck — through the big doors on the north side. Once we get inside, we'll be close to control."

"After me," Oliver said, bending low over his bike.

The doors ground open, and they raced forward under the cover of a blinding flash of lightning. The steel deck was dangerously slippery from the storm, to the point where Felicity had to wonder if they were riding or just sliding along with the water. They forced a few confused guards to dive out of the way, raising knee-high furrows of rainwater as they splashed straight across the south deck.

"Arsenal!" Oliver shouted, and Roy stood up again, an explosive arrow lodged in his bow.

The arrow thunked against the big double doors and blasted them wide open. They sailed under the charred frame and continued down the slick corridors, trailing water in their wake.

"I hear something!" Oliver said, and a second later, Felicity realized what it was.

Metallic grinding, coming straight from the walls. She lifted her head just in time to see some kind of barrier coming down from the ceiling — rapidly closing jaws at the beginning of each corridor.

They passed under the first one easily, narrowly ducking under the second, but the third was coming down too quickly —

"Oliver, we're not going to —"

" _Hold on!_ " Felicity shut her eyes as the bike dipped sharply to the side. They were skidding across the steel floor now, metal screeching worse than fingernails on a chalkboard, more sparks flying than the Fourth of July…

The bike slammed wheels-first into the solid steel grilles with a jarring crash, which probably would have flattened them if they'd attempted to ride straight through. Oliver and Felicity were face to face on the ground, but the others had managed to brake, and were now looking at the grilles blocking their front and back with various forms of profanity.

"Ow," Felicity said, sliding her legs out from the space beneath the bike. "That went well. You okay?"

"Fine." Oliver sounded a little winded, but he pulled her off the floor with one hand, his bow in the other. "Where are we?"

Felicity's head was spinning, and she had to force her eyes to focus in on the tablet screen so she could check their location.

"Two floors down from control, but there's a staircase we can use — if I could just get these…open."

"They've got to be two hundred pounds," Roy said. "There's no way —"

"Right," Felicity snorted, swiping rapidly on her tablet. "Because my weapon of choice is physical exertion."

As if on cue, the gate cranked upward and they slid beneath it, Felicity already starting to program the next one. It was achingly slow progress, but each gate override was more decryption than riding motorbikes at high speed allowed for.

"At least we're close," she said, to no one in particular. "Ray still shorted out the cameras, so they must have no idea where we —"

The gate rose so suddenly away from her fingertips that Felicity drew them back, watching it retract into the ceiling with no small amount of apprehension.

"And… _frack_ ," she said.

Oliver moved instinctively to stand in front of her, his bow already trained on the far side of the corridor. Beside him, Diggle raised his gun. "Here we go," he muttered.

At the back of her mind, Felicity wondered if getting back to the bikes was a good idea. Said idea died in her throat the sound of footsteps echoed on both ends of the corridor, the sound of them being strictly outnumbered. Felicity was at Oliver's shoulder — her gun raised in front of her — Thea at her side, Roy and Diggle at her back, all of them ready to fight.

An arrow came whizzing out of nowhere and Oliver deflected it off his bow. The low growl that escaped him was confirmation of what she'd immediately realized.

"Malcolm," Thea hissed.

The blank-faced soldiers at the far end of the hall parted to reveal a single figure in black armor, holding a bow loosely at his side, a long steel sword in the other.

"Hello, Thea," said Malcolm. "Hello, Oliver."

A slow smile spread across his features as he took in the sight of them, surrounded, backed into a not-so-metaphorical dead end.

"I believe it's time we settle our differences, don't you?" he said pleasantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun DUNNNNNN.
> 
> Writing action's fuuuuuuun. Gave me an excuse to rewatch old Olicity scenes. *fingers crossed for more Olicity stunts in s4* (besides the making out, I mean, but that should still be in there)
> 
> Okay. I'm stopping now. Until the next update!


	75. Timing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chugging along on the writing train. Gotta finish this.
> 
> BTW, glad you guys enjoyed the Olicity stunts. Gave me an excuse to rewatch their scenes on YouTube. (*whispers* Like I need one)

"Coming here tonight was unwise," Malcolm said, the tip of his sword dragging slightly on the ground as he walked forward. "You'll regret it — if you live long enough."

"Come over here and say that," Thea retorted.

Malcolm's smile grew a little colder when he stared at his only daughter. "I'm disappointed in you, Thea. You owe your brother some loyalty, but _this_ — interfering with matters you cannot even begin to understand, risking your life…for what?" He raised his arms, a not-so-gracious way of reminding them (as if they needed reminding) that they were all outnumbered. "You can't defeat Damien Darhk — and you cannot defeat HIVE. It would be foolish to try."

"I'll try to live with the shame," Thea said. "For fighting against a crazy psycho who wants to _kill_ innocent people and level a city because of _fear_. He's crazy, you're pathetic, and I'm _ashamed_ to call you my father."

 _Go Thea,_ Felicity thought. But the words glanced off Malcolm's armor; his expression didn't even shift. He only cocked his head and exhaled. "I knew Tommy would be a disappointment, but I had higher hopes for you," he said, and turned his attention to Oliver. "And you."

 _Uh-oh._ Felicity sensed Oliver's anger even before the arrow in his bow was pointed at what she guessed was Malcolm's right eye. "Don't talk about Tommy," Oliver said, in a low voice that hummed with the dangerous consequences of insulting his best friend's memory. "You — of all people — do _not_ get to speak about Tommy."

"I'm touched, Oliver, that you see my son as so deserving of your remembrance," Malcolm answered. "He wasn't strong like you, but he would have followed you to the end out of pure foolishness. Maybe — if he'd lived — I'd be facing two of my children here tonight."

"Oh, shut _up_ ," Felicity snapped, before she could stop herself. "Bearing in mind the irony of me saying this, but do you _ever_ stop talking?"

Malcolm only looked amused. Which was very flattering, considering she had a gun.

Not.

"Hello, Felicity," he said pleasantly, and she at once felt Oliver move a little closer, shielding her with his body. "Your father's expecting you."

"Fantastic," she answered. "So tell your mind control minions to let us through and we'll be out of your hair."

Malcolm smiled wider. "I'm afraid that's not possible. You see, I have orders to kill every one of your friends, and even if you wanted to something as stupid as risk your life for theirs, I don't think you can protect all four of them at once, can you?"

 _Shield._ That was an idea. Felicity's fingers were sweaty, but they slid soundlessly across the screen of her tablet, wedged between Oliver's back and her left hand. Two sides of the corridor, both blocked. But she knew which one was the better way out.

Felicity pressed hard against Oliver's spine so he knew she had something. "No," she said, her finger hovering over the final key. "But I can try."

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. "I don't see how —"

Oliver cut him off with a well-timed arrow to the face, and Felicity hit the controls. " _Get down!_ " she screamed.

Everyone didn't need telling twice. They dove onto the ground, and she sent the gate crashing down between them and Malcolm's side of the corridor. In the confusion, Felicity fumbled inside her bag, bringing out one of the three small vials she'd been keeping safe.

She was mentally apologizing — even while she drew her arm back to throw — because a squad of brainwashed soldiers was about to have some _truly_ terrible dreams.

"Kill them!" Malcolm shouted, but Felicity had already hurled the tiny vial towards the far end of the hall, where it smashed at the soldiers' feet.

The glass shattered with a surprisingly delicate sound, a contrast quickly exacerbated by the ferocity with which the black gas erupted from the tiny container, swallowing the soldiers within seconds.

But Felicity didn't stay to watch. Everyone had been inoculated except Thea, so Felicity dove towards Oliver's little sister — clamping a hand securely over Thea's mouth and nose to stop her from breathing in the gas.

It dispersed with phantom-like swiftness, revealing the unconscious (and vaguely twitchy) bodies of Damien's brainwashed soldiers. Thea batted at Felicity's hand, which had gone from _protecting_ to _suffocating_ , and she let go with a murmured apology, helping her to stand.

"S'okay," Thea rasped, her face flushed. "What was —?"

"The pit," Malcolm said, from the other side of the steel grating. There was a kind of savage delight in his expression, like the part of him who'd trained in the League relished the manifestation of one of its most fearsome traditions, as inconvenient as it made things for him.

"Bravo, Miss Smoak," he said, already reaching towards the security console that controlled the gates — one that he was undoubtedly authorized to operate. "But now what?"

Felicity glanced at the others. "I _think_ this is where we get the hell out of here," she said, and — very much in agreement — they all broke into a run.

* * *

Oliver dodged instinctively at the sound of clanging metal, twisting to fire an arrow into a soldier before taking cover again.

This was by far one of the strangest battles he'd ever been part of. Felicity had quickly realized that arrows and non-lethal bullets were not going to win without some form of help, and she'd quickly thought of a solution to tip the scales in their favor.

Simultaneously one of the strangest, and smartest strategies he'd ever seen her employ. The gates had slowed Malcolm and his men down, which gave them time to duck inside the rooms and scavenge obstacles to throw in their way. Felicity had directed the steel cabinets and desks and chairs currently lying in Malcolm's path in a seemingly haphazard fashion, but as soon as his soldiers started firing — Oliver saw why.

The steel walls in the hallway meant that bullets were more likely to ricochet than find their intended mark, a fact he'd quickly realized when one of the soldiers was taken out by a comrade's bullet — deflected off the surface of a metal desk.

Malcolm's progress had slowed, and his soldiers were hesitating long enough for their team to use their arrows.

"Very clever, Miss Smoak," Malcolm called, kicking a low steel cabinet out of the way with a screech. "But you can't keep running forever."

"Try me," Felicity grunted, shoving another filing cabinet between them with a two-legged kick.

"Anyone else starting to regret the no-kill rule?" Roy asked, after another bullet dented the door he was taking cover behind.

Oliver checked the corridor again, ducking out of sight again to avoid a spray of bullets. They were steadily picking off Malcolm's numbers. Now they were almost even — except he wasn't planning on having Felicity fight a soldier by herself.

Beneath the desk they were using as a shield, Felicity widened her eyes at Oliver, who held up three fingers. He was listening for Malcolm's footfalls, _three_ (he put down one finger)…

"Coming here tonight was a foolish decision," Malcolm continued. "One you'll live to regret — if you live through the night."

 _Two_ (he put down one more) _…_

Thea's red arrow whipped past Malcolm's cheek, but he only smirked. "Oliver's taught you well. But you're still holding back — you're still not using your killer's instincts. I know you have them, Thea. I'm your father, you can't —"

"— _Felicity!_ "

Felicity lunged out from behind the desk, her elbows on the scarred surface as she cut him off with three well-placed shots, slamming one after another into his chest. Malcolm stumbled back, winded, but when he looked up from the dented chest plate and smiled at Felicity, Oliver knew that something had changed.

"Have it your way, then," he said, and Oliver moved when he did — sweeping his bow through the air and deflecting the black arrow that would have pierced her throat.

For what seemed like the longest moment, Oliver stared at the broken arrow, his heart hammering with the knowledge that Malcolm had aimed to kill Felicity.

He'd seriously meant to kill her. Blatantly, against his orders — he was trying to kill her.

The sound of a bowstring being drawn taut roused Oliver from the realization, and he knocked Felicity out of the way, just before another arrow embedded itself in the wall above her head.

They hit the ground, the impact driving the breath from their lungs. Oliver was on top of Felicity, who groaned and reached up to feel a small cut at the side of her head.

"Okay," she said breathlessly. "I think he's mad."

Oliver pulled her off the ground and behind the next corner, where they crouched in the shadow of a cabinet, against the sound of unfriendly fire.

"Felicity, you have to get out of here," he said, the words rushing out of him before he could even _think_ of a way to make her accept them.

She didn't.

" _No_ ," she said, with a furious shake of her head. "I'm not going anywhere without you — you can't make me."

Oliver gripped her hands. "Malcolm just tried to kill you," he said, and repeating it only brought back the rush of numbness — the instant of _fear_ he'd felt at having her so close to death. "He's not holding back anymore, and I can't fight him if I'm worrying about you."

" _Oliver,_ " Felicity began, but he'd already turned to find Diggle. "John!"

As soon as Diggle saw them, an unspoken signal traveled between the two best friends, at the sight of Oliver taking Felicity aside in the middle of the battle. Like they'd discussed — the person Oliver trusted most to keep Felicity safe, because he of all people knew what she meant to him.

Diggle held out his hand for Felicity with a nod. "I'll take care of her," he said. "Meet you up in control."

Felicity looked at Diggle's outstretched hand like he'd spoken a language she didn't understand. " _No_ ," she repeated, her hair flying wildly around her face when she shook her head. "Oliver, you can't —"

"Felicity, I need you to be safe—" He tried to stroke her cheek, but she swiped his hand aside.

"—I don't want to be safe, I want to be with you," she said, and suddenly they were both thinking about another time, another place, another war.

The refusal caught in Oliver's throat, and this time, Felicity didn't push him away when he tried to touch her. She laced her fingers through his, their hands entwined against her cheek. "For better or for worse," she insisted. "This is worse — and I am _not_ leaving you behind, Oliver Queen. So don't —"

Oliver leaned down and cut her off with a kiss. A faint murmur of surprise escaped her and she gasped when he pulled away, her forehead pushing instinctively against his, their breaths sharp and uneven in the small space between their parted lips. "I love you, Felicity," Oliver said. "And I'm _asking_ you to do this — for me. I can't fight Malcolm and win if he's trying to kill you — I can't. I promise I'll find you after this is over, but right now, I need you to be safe."

Felicity shook her head once, but it was so soft, so unwilling, that Oliver knew she was close to listening.

" _Please_ ," he whispered.

They were on their feet now, Felicity backing reluctantly towards Diggle and away from the fight, but just as Oliver's hands started to slip out of hers, she tightened her grip without warning, and in one — electric — moment, tugged him close again so their mouths met.

Felicity held him tight, grasping at the collar of his suit, teetering on her toes as she kissed him — furiously, stubbornly — making sure he knew and remembered all the promises he'd made…

 _The_ reason to fight, and _the_ reason to win.

"I'll see you soon," she breathed, and it wasn't a promise — it was certainty.

"I'll see you soon," Oliver said back, and she was still in his arms when he turned to Diggle. "John, I—"

Diggle nodded. "Thank me later — _after_ you kick Merlyn's ass."

Oliver smiled grimly. "I will. Now go," he murmured, and gave Felicity a gentle shove. "I'll be fine — _go!_ "

"Come on." Diggle took Felicity's arm and they ran. The last glimpse Oliver had of Felicity — _his_ Felicity — was her turning to look at him over her shoulder. Her eyes were bright with tears and their gazes met for what felt like an eternity of unspoken words, in the brief seconds before they were pulled apart for real.

She was gone.

 _I love you,_ Oliver thought, before he turned back to face Malcolm Merlyn. He closed his eyes and let it wash over him — the feeling of loving, and being loved _by_ Felicity Smoak.

Felicity Queen, now.

When Oliver opened his eyes, he knew what he had to do. It wasn't the first time he'd fought his way back to Felicity's side, and it wouldn't be the last.

Her love made him fearless, and loving her made him strong.

He would see her again — he'd make sure of it.

* * *

Felicity had a stabbing pain in her side from the full-pelt running, but she pushed through, navigating the maze of flickering corridors. Two was _not_ the best number to go charging into battle with, and the hallways were crawling with semi-expected obstacles of the mind-controlled variety.

"Wish we still had those bikes," Diggle muttered, as they hid beneath some pipes and waited for some soldiers to pass.

Felicity hunched over the tablet, partly to hide the glow from the screen, partly to nurse the throbbing stitch somewhere beneath her ribs. She felt not-so-vaguely sick from running — not just because she despised running, both in practice and on principle — but because she'd left Oliver behind.

She'd left Oliver.

"Hey," Diggle said, gripping her shoulder. "He trusts me to keep you safe. _Trusts._ Because he plans on coming back. It's always been Oliver's plan to end up with you, Felicity, don't you ever doubt that."

Felicity released a pent-up breath in a gasp, quickly stifled behind her hand. "I know," she said. "I know I shouldn't doubt him, it's just…"

"He's programmed to be reckless and hardwired for sacrifice," Diggle finished, with a heavy sigh that told her he was just as worried about Oliver as she was. "I know. But he's changed. Ever since the two of you got serious, he's been different. You love him, he loves you, and it's changed the way he is. You've given him a reason to live, something to fight for. Oliver's never been stronger than when he's fighting for the love of his life — and he's fighting right now for you, Felicity. He'll come back. Believe it."

Felicity shut her eyes and breathed, feeling the pain ease as she did. "I'm keeping your number for marriage counseling," she said, wiping her face. "I have a feeling the two of us are going to need your sagely advice pretty often."

Diggle patted her knee with a short laugh. "I think you and Oliver do just fine on your own. Once the two of you actually settle down and get a place together."

Felicity made a small noise, more like a hiccough than anything else. "I promise I'll start looking at the real estate listings after we get out of this."

"Some place with a barbecue pit. Sunday dinners at your house."

"Deal."

Maybe it was the mental image of Oliver having to deal with a grill and the oh-so-mundane logistics of flipping burgers, but they both laughed then, and Felicity nudged Diggle's knee with hers. "Thank you, John," she whispered. "Really."

"Don't mention it." Diggle smiled at her before craning his neck to check the hallway. "I think we're in the clear."

Felicity checked the map. "We're close. Two more lefts and through the engine room. We can take the emergency staircase through to control."

Diggle nodded and slipped down the corridor. Felicity started to follow him, monitoring hostiles on her tablet screen. Her earpiece buzzed suddenly, and Felicity accepted the call with a hasty tap.

"Whoever this is — I really need to call you back," she said, over the background noise of a truly atrocious signal. "Long story, will explain later. Leave a message after the beep. _B_ —"

"Felicity!"

It was Caitlin, and she sounded…panicked. Oh god, what was going wrong now?

"Caitlin — is everything okay? Did something happen?"

"No, nothing's wrong —"

Felicity resisted the temptation to fling the earpiece into the wall. "Caitlin — no offense — but calling me right now could not get any worse, timing-wise, and you're talking to someone who married the love of her life on a rooftop in the middle of a _thunderstorm._ "

"I know, I know. But the computer came back with the results from your blood test. I must have set an alert and forgot to check it —"

"And you're calling me about this _now_?" Felicity demanded, turning down the first left with Diggle at her side.

"There's nothing wrong with you!" Caitlin shouted, which didn't help. At all.

"Imagine I'm saying this in my loud voice," Felicity said, trying not to lose her metaphorical nuts and bolts. "But you're calling me about this _now_?"

Another left — almost at the engine room now.

"No, Felicity, you need to listen to me. You're not sick, you're not having side-effects. The fainting, the dizziness, the throwing up — it's nothing to do with the pit. Because —"

Diggle's arm came out of nowhere and pinned her to the wall. His finger was on his lips, and they both went still behind the corner, listening to the footsteps marching past. Felicity was so concentrated on pretending she didn't exist that she almost missed what Caitlin said next.

"—you're not sick, you're pregnant," Caitlin finished. "Felicity, you're _pregnant_ , and you need to get off that ship, right now."

Diggle motioned for them to keep moving, but Felicity had literally stopped in her tracks, the trying-not-to-ralph sensation she'd been having for days — at that very moment — taking on a whole new meaning.

A meaning that redefined, for what felt like the millionth time, the phrase _bad timing_.

"I'm…" she began.

" _Pregnant_ ," Caitlin was _definitely_ using her loud voice now. "Get off that ship, Felicity. _Now_."

Felicity nodded like she was listening, when all she could hear were the two words, repeating themselves like a bell toll inside her head. "I'm gonna need to call you back," she said, in a voice that sounded nothing like her own.

"Felicity! It's not safe for you on that ship, and you need to get back here, right now. I'll call Barry to come get you. Felicity, do _not_ hang up on me. Do not —!"

Felicity hung up on her.

It was an action as hasty as it was guilty, like she'd broken a vase and swept the pieces under a rug. She could _not_ deal with the news right now. Not now — definitely not now.

"Everything okay?" Diggle asked, looking at her with concern.

"Fine." Felicity shook herself, staring at the door to the engine room. "I'm fine. Sorry. Let's — um — hack…this."

Diggle seemed less than convinced, but she quickly went on her knees in front of the door to avoid any awkward questions. The lock was encrypted, same as the gates, an easy hack that left her mind unfortunately free while her hands moved across the tablet screen without conscious thought.

_I'm pregnant._

_Holy frack — I'm pregnant._

_How?_

_Don't go there._

There were a range of responses up for grabs. The convenient numbness of a delayed reaction, denial (always fun, because the bio-med engineer with _three_ degrees could definitely flub a simple pregnancy test), skippy heart-palpitations that felt suspiciously like elation (Oliver's baby, she was having Oliver's baby)…all firing off inside her brain, the impossibly confusing up-down of finding out she was pregnant.

The annoyingly truthful part of herself knew that being hands-off had never been her and Oliver's strong suit (the weapons room incident stood out as a particularly memorable example), and despite the fact that they'd been careful…

Sometimes these things happened.

But oh — _fracking_ — hell, why now?

The door saved her from having to answer. It gave a low beep upon decryption, and Felicity pushed it open with a creak of heavy steel. "We're in," she said.

* * *

The engine room was slick with condensation and humid with billows of white steam that hissed perpetually from the pipes. The lighting flickered with the distant sound of explosions (was that a sonic scream Felicity heard?), a steady hum of electricity pervading the strange shapes and odd shadows lurking in the corners.

In hindsight (and Felicity had been doing a couple of minutes' worth of hard thinking, sneaking through the engine room), she shouldn't have been all that surprised. Everything she and Oliver ever did seemed to come squarely under the heading of _bad timing_ , a category that had since needed to be further sub-divided into more detailed classification, ranging from _no good_ to _absolutely fracking terrible_.

They'd met because an assassin for hire had left behind a bullet-ridden laptop.

Oliver had told her his secret because his mother (his _mother_ , of all people) had shot him in the shoulder and forced him to hide, bleeding to death, in the backseat of her car.

He'd told her that he loved her with a homicidal ex-mentor on the loose.

Their first date had been blown up with a bazooka.

They'd gotten together — _for real_ — under the threat of invasion by an ancient league of killers.

Their first attempt at a wedding had been interrupted by her super-villain father decimating their second home.

Their _successful_ wedding had happened after a declaration of war by said evil father, during an actual thunderstorm.

Honestly, Felicity shouldn't have been surprised that she'd found out she was pregnant during her _Destroy Dad's Evil Ship_ plan. At this point, she could probably expect to go into _labor_ with Oliver halfway around the world on some assignment, chasing a drug lord and firing arrows in response to machine gunfire.

Oh god, Oliver. He was fighting Malcolm Merlyn at that very moment — he had to be — and Felicity couldn't allow herself to believe in anything except the certainty that he'd come find her after he won.

 _Certainty_.

Felicity felt her hand slip to her belly. Only minutes ago it had been empty to her, and now…every heartbeat felt like one she shared with this unexpected discovery, this strange miracle.

A _baby_.

She was being so stupid. Lyla had done it — carried little Sara through the war with Slade and the Mirakuru soldiers — and she was pregnant for a second time now, through the fall of ARGUS and war with Damien Darhk (pregnancy-wise, Diggle and Lyla could _really_ give Oliver and Felicity a run for their money). Lyla was a soldier and one of the bravest people she had ever met, but Felicity was a fighter. She'd always fought back, and this time wouldn't be any different. It was bad timing, but the most precious moments in her and Oliver's lives together had been in the middle of some truly awful circumstances, and even given the choice now — she wouldn't have changed a thing. Because it was _them_.

Here was the truth, the single, important truth. Felicity had made a baby with the love of her life, a man who'd pulled himself from the darkness and survived unspeakable things through courage, pure force of will, and a light in his soul. Even if the news came at the worst possible time, they'd always turned it — a speck of brightness in the sea of shadows — into a fierce blaze, an unquenchable reason to fight, to _live_.

Their baby would be so loved, and it was — to her, at least — _the_ reason to fight back. To survive. So they could raise their child and love this baby boy or girl — together.

_Together._

Felicity didn't realize that she'd dropped her guard until something flicked towards her face with a whizzing noise, and Diggle yanked her down — just in time to avoid the knife that sank into the steel surface of a pipe, hissing white steam.

Felicity and Diggle were on the balcony running the perimeter of the engine room; the knife had come from below. The sound of heavy boots echoed on the steel floors, but one set of footsteps stood out by contrast. Light, deliberate — in control. The thugs were speaking Russian, low and guttural, but they were silenced with a single word.

A woman.

 _Oh no_.

Felicity looked over the railing and met Sandra Hawke's dark gaze. "You didn't actually think I'd sit this one out, did you?" she said, with a laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, congratulations to the five people who messaged me at various points from chapter 56 onwards. You guessed RIGHT. She's totally freaking pregnant. To the rest of you - whom I'm guessing probably had a hunch but didn't message - I also tip my hat, because you basically made me get progressively less and less subtle with each update. (See previous chapters for reference)   
> Maybe you didn't believe it because you KNOW I have black blood running through my veins, but it's really not that hard to believe that I want something nice to happen to Olicity for once. :D
> 
> Also, I apologize profusely to anyone who sorta alluded to/commented on the possibility of Felicity being pregnant and I never answered because *spoilers*. So sorry.


	76. Tether

Thea's kick sent the last thug sliding across the glass-strewn floor, where he came to stop at her father's feet. "It's over, Malcolm," she panted. "Give it up — don't make me do this."

"Do what?" Malcolm laughed. "Kill your own father? No, Thea — your brother's made you too soft for that. If even Felicity Smoak cannot bring herself to put a bullet between her father's eyes, you're not going to kill me."

"Big words," Roy said, his arrow pointed at Malcolm's heart. "But there's three of us, and only one of you."

Malcolm barely spared him a disparaging glance. "This is a family affair, Mr. Harper, and _none_ of your concern."

"You think you can tell Thea what to do?" Roy snarled. "You may be her biological father, but the only person who has agency over Thea Queen is herself — you can't tell her who to be, and what to fight for. You don't have that right."

"You sound just like Oliver," Malcom said, rolling his eyes. "So idealistic. So naïve. There may come a time when you'll be sorry you didn't take my advice."

Oliver stepped forward, disregarding his sister's wordless warning — because his bow was loose at his side, his chest unguarded.

"Not today, Malcolm," he said. "This is where it ends."

Malcolm's eyes lingered at the end of the hallway, as if he knew where Oliver had said goodbye to Felicity. "You sent her away," he remarked, sounding surprised. "I didn't think you had it in you. Doesn't having her at your side make you feel strong? Doesn't the Arrow hang all his hopes — his _light_ — in one Miss Felicity Smoak?"

" _Queen_ ," Oliver corrected. "Felicity Queen."

Oliver saw Malcolm's gaze flick down to his hand, as if to look for a ring. He licked his lips, a nervous gesture quickly concealed behind a false smile. "Oh, Oliver," he said, with a shake of his head. "You really shouldn't have done that. Damien Darhk will kill you anyway, regardless of who you are to his daughter. Except now he'll make you suffer for it."

"For marrying the woman I love," Oliver answered. "I'm not sorry for that."

"You're a fool, Oliver Queen," said Malcolm. "You chose to play for the wrong side, and you'll lose everything."

"Maybe," Oliver agreed, and the air suddenly sharpened, with the dueling instincts of two trained fighters. "But some things can't be lost."

Their eyes met, and both men moved at the same time. Oliver fired an arrow that cut Malcolm's in two, showering the ground with sparks. The distance between them was barely anything, and they crossed it at a run.

Oliver's bow clashed against Malcolm's with a metallic shriek, and they grappled, their strength locking them in a stalemate. Oliver forced Malcolm back with a grunt, and they crashed into a wall.

Thea cried out, but Oliver knew it was impossible for her to aim at Malcolm without a substantial risk of hitting him too. And in all honesty, he didn't want her to. It was an unforgivable burden to shoulder, and he'd fight his hardest to make sure she didn't have to bear it.

Malcolm's fist glinted and Oliver arched back, just in time to avoid the razor point of an arrow as it swiped beneath his chin. Oliver caught Malcolm's arm and slammed it into the wall. The arrow spun through the air, and Oliver caught the shaft one-handedly, loading as he spun and loosing it straight at Malcolm's throat.

The pieces clattered aside, cleaved in two by Malcolm's drawn blade. He straightened up, the sword gleaming in his hand.

"We always knew it would end this way," Malcolm said, tossing his bow aside. It skittered across the floor, stopping just shy of Oliver's feet. "Why prolong the inevitable?"

Very gently, Oliver lowered his bow to the ground and reached behind his back for the sword the League had forged for him. Malcom's eyes followed the smooth, fluid hiss of Oliver drawing the sword from its sheath.

"A League blade," he breathed, and Oliver knew he was afraid. "Nyssa al Ghul doesn't make gifts lightly."

The bright steel cast reflections on the dull ceiling, and Oliver turned the grip in his hands, remembering his training. "She gave me this so I could beat you," he said.

"Don't count on it, Oliver." Malcolm had regained his smile. "I was always the stronger swordsman — and we were _both_ trained by the League."

An empty sheath spun across the ground, and Oliver sensed two figures on either side of him. Roy…and Thea.

"He's not alone," Thea said.

"Never is," Roy added.

Oliver glanced at his sister. "Are you sure?" he asked.

Thea nodded, and pointed her sword at her father's heart. "I'm sure," she promised.

Malcolm's smile faded as he faced all three of them, for what felt like the first time. "Are you ready?" he asked, in a cold voice.

Oliver raised his sword. "Are you?"

* * *

 _Perfect._ Just what Felicity needed. To find out she was pregnant, kinda-sorta come to terms with the idea, and get smacked in the face with the surprise arrival of the mother of Oliver's son.

Sandra Hawke.

Who was brainwashed with a nano-implant at the back of her skull, currently the head of the Starling City Bratva, a position she'd been promoted to (Felicity guessed) by being as brutal and dangerous as the thugs she'd brought with her.

 _Huh_. Felicity had never really said the whole thing to herself before. It was surprisingly hard to believe.

"Sandra," she said, in a voice she fought hard to keep from shaking. "Didn't expect to see you here, with one — two — _three_ — Russian friends. They're very… _big_."

Which was about the nicest thing she could say for the trio of veiny, muscly Bratva thugs who looked like they smashed their foreheads into brick walls on a regular basis, whose combined muscle mass made the steel staircase creak ominously under their feet when they climbed up to the balcony.

In other words, not good. Not good at all.

"These boys are for your friend," Sandra said, resting her hand on one of their boulder-like shoulders. "They'll keep him nice and busy, so you can come with me — and have a nice, long talk with your dad."

Felicity heard the safety click on Diggle's gun, and reached behind her back to do the same.

"Felicity…" he said.

"Not gonna happen," she said, sensing the _run_ he'd been about to tack onto the end of the sentence. "You are _not_ pulling an Oliver on me."

Diggle had a very practical ability of acknowledging things that _were_ and _were not_ going to happen, and Felicity leaving him behind fell strictly in the latter category. So he took her arm, the both of them getting ready to make a break for it.

Their body language didn't go unnoticed, because Sandra said something in Russian, and her thugs cracked their knuckles, flexed their arms, and generally did what they could to look highly intimidating.

"Come on, Felicity," Sandra purred. "You're smart. You know this only ends one way. Give Damien what he wants — and everyone walks out here alive."

Felicity was already looking for their way out. Engine rooms had release valves — release valves made steam — steam was a good distraction. Two valves — one behind Sandra, the other on the floor below.

Felicity turned back to Sandra. "I know what my dad wants," she said, bluntly. "And I came all this way to tell him that I could _really_ give a crap."

Then, in one fluid motion, she raised her gun and fired.

* * *

Malcolm's sword dragged across the steel wall with a shower of sparks. Oliver lunged, bringing his sword up to strike — but Malcolm blocked with a second blade, kicking Roy in the knee and parrying Thea in the same strike.

The three of them dodged and danced around Malcolm's scissoring blades, using the maneuvers they'd been taught by Nyssa, but it was quickly apparent that Malcolm fought differently. He fought dirty — no scruples — no line he couldn't cross.

Twice he'd grabbed Thea and thrust her into Oliver's path like a human shield, to the point where Oliver had nearly hurt her with a blow meant for Malcolm.

"There's no such thing as cheating, Oliver," Malcolm said, as if he could sense Oliver's thoughts — and his frustration. "There's only survival, and right now, yours is hanging by a thread."

Roy said something rude and swung at Malcolm's throat. Oliver saw it before the others did — Malcolm's feint. He bent back to avoid the edge, but caught Roy's arm as it followed through the swing and twisted him around, forcing him into a headlock.

Oliver stopped his sword just shy of Roy's chest, currently being used by Malcolm as a human shield. Malcolm had tipped the scales in his favor — by using one of their own, someone they would never hurt.

"Roy!" Thea screamed, as his feet scrabbled against the tightening hold of Malcolm's arms. "You cheating son of a —"

"… _Thea_ …" Roy choked, his fist thumping against Malcolm's elbow. "Fight…fight him…" He broke off with a rasp, his skin reddening from the blood rushing into his head.

"Let him go, Malcolm," Oliver snarled. "You're better than this."

" _Better_ is a highly subjective term," Malcolm replied coolly. "You see, _this_ is just another means of ensuring my survival. There's no better way than that."

"I'll kill you!" Thea spat. "I'll —"

"Yes, you'll kill me," Malcolm said laconically. "I know. Why do you think I'm employing Mr. Harper as a means of insurance? Drop your weapons, or I'll make him suffer."

He smirked at the expressions on their faces. "Do not mistake my threat for reticence," he said, and kicked Roy to his knees, holding the sword beneath his bared throat before either Oliver or Thea could move to stop him.

Roy coughed, his whole body bending forward from the force of it, but Malcolm seized the hair at the top of his head and yanked his head back.

"There are worse ways to suffer," he promised. "You've trained this boy to be an archer, but before that — he was a thief. What do both have in common?"

The sword tip dug into the leather of Roy's sleeve, just above his elbow, and Oliver felt his vision throb with anger at the sight of the blood welling from the pierced skin.

"I could cut off his arm in front of you," Malcolm said to Oliver. "His mentor. Powerless to stop his protege from being maimed beyond repair. The anger would eat him alive, and end whatever future he had planned for himself and my daughter." He smiled at Thea." _Quite_ a threatening prospect, isn't it?"

Roy's hand was creeping steadily towards his boot, and the flechette Oliver knew he stowed in a hidden sheath.

"Go to hell," Thea answered, which only made Malcolm smile.

Malcolm had Roy's arm stretched taut by his side, and triumph gleamed in his eyes as he raised his sword above his head. "War," he said, "always has a cost."

"Yes, it does," Roy said, and twisted just before the blade flashed down.

Malcolm was too strong, and there was only one way to break his grip. Roy's arm lengthened and contorted at an unnatural angle; Oliver heard the crack and the hiss of pain forced between his teeth, but he'd wrenched free of Malcolm's hold and the dart in his hand flashed as he threw.

It speared Malcolm's wrist and spurted dark red across his suit, giving Oliver and Thea more than enough time to react. They rushed forward — brother and sister together — and fought.

Malcolm met them with two blades, even though his right hand was weakened and dripping blood with every swing he made. There was no trace of a smile on his face now, but being backed into a corner didn't make him fearful — it made him vicious.

Thea flinched but fought on from a cut in her side; Oliver's torso throbbed from a kick Malcolm had landed squarely on his chest, but neither of them paused for a second. Seeing someone they loved hurt had always produced the opposite effect on the two Queens. Instead of the debilitating fear and shock that it was meant to have, it only made them angry — and even more determined to fight back.

It was this blazing anger now that made Oliver determined to take Malcolm down, once and for all.

"Speedy!" he shouted, and tossed his sword from his right hand to his left. He swiped at Malcolm's weakened side, forcing him to overcompensate, knowing — _trusting_ — his sister to do what they'd been trained to do. She ducked under Malcolm's guard, a blur of red and black, sliding across the ground with her sword straight and true…

Blood slid soundlessly down the blade of Thea's sword, dripping on the steel floor beside her arm, from the wound she'd made in Malcolm's side.

She wrenched her sword away from him, her breathing harsh and rapid enough to pass as sobs, and swung it straight through the bleeding puncture in Malcolm's wrist without a moment's hesitation.

Malcolm sank to his knees with a thud, and looked down at the bleeding stump where his right hand had been, his expression almost bemused. "You had it in you…after all," he said, as if he couldn't quite believe it.

"Do _not_ mess with a Queen," Thea said. "And do _not_ try to hurt the people I love."

Malcolm's wounds weren't fatal, not unless they wanted them to be, and Oliver wasn't sure if he would have stopped his sister — if she'd gone for the killing blow. But she swung her knee into the side of Malcolm's head instead, and knocked him out cold.

Oliver went immediately to his knees in front of Roy. "Are you all right?" he asked, careful not to touch Roy's twisted arm.

Sweat glistened on his face, his breathing shallow from the pain. "I think it's broken," Roy said, through gritted teeth.

Oliver could see that, and the agonizing pain it had to have cost him. "I'm sorry, Roy, I never meant for you to —"

"—do something totally reckless and kinda stupid?" Roy's laugh shifted almost immediately into a wince. "I know who taught me that one."

Oliver hesitated, and Roy shook his head, anticipating what he wanted to say. "You would have done the same thing."

Thea's breath left her in an uneven gasp. "He needs a tourniquet," she said, looking down at Malcolm.

Roy nodded at Oliver. _Go_ , he mouthed. Oliver let his hand rest on Roy's uninjured shoulder for a moment.

 _Thank you_.

Glass crunched beneath his feet as Oliver walked towards his sister. "I'll do it," he said. "Roy needs you —"

Thea turned suddenly, stumbling straight into Oliver in a daze. Oliver caught his little sister, steadied her, and pressed a kiss to the side of her head. "It's okay," he said. "You did the right thing. Nothing else."

Oliver looked at Roy over Thea's head. He'd managed to sit up, cradling his broken arm, and nodded in silent agreement.

"Thank you, Ollie," Thea whispered. "Thank you."

Oliver gave her a gentle push, and she raced over to Roy, who had her in a one-armed hug before either of them could speak. Malcolm was unconscious and bleeding, and Oliver turned the strap of Malcolm's severed quiver into a makeshift tourniquet, tying it tight to stop the blood loss from being fatal. The injury in his side was only a flesh wound, but Oliver put pressure on it anyway, acting with unthinking precision.

His sister and Roy were murmuring to each other when Oliver called Barry. They needed to get Roy back onto the plane somehow, and make sure they had Malcolm under lockdown, for after.

"Barry's on his way," he said, facing his sister again. "I'll stay with you —"

Thea shook her head. "Felicity," she said, white-faced but sure. "You need to find her."

Oliver started to answer, but Roy interrupted him. "Nothing good ever happens when the two of you get separated —" he grimaced from the pain in his arm "—in a fight. The last time that happened, she got cornered by Ra's al Ghul. You need to find her. We'll be — _argh_ — fine."

"I can't —"

" _Ollie_ ," Thea's eyes blazed dark with stubbornness. "Go."

Oliver kissed her quickly on the forehead, and started down the hallway. He couldn't deny the truth in what they'd said. There was a nagging sense of unease at the thought of being separated from Felicity — and he only hoped that he was wrong.

* * *

A thug went flying off the side of the railing, landing with a resounding crash that seemed to shake the floor of the engine room. Felicity had no idea how Diggle's fight was going — but she guessed that was a good sign.

Which left her facing Oliver's brainwashed, evil-but-not-really-evil ex-girlfriend-slash-mother-of-his-child (mental mouthful right there). Felicity shifted her grip on the gun, steadily backing away as Sandra advanced, with the confidence of a cat toying with a mouse.

"Would you believe me if I said that getting an injection will _really_ change your perspective on the whole beat-me-into-submission thing?" Felicity asked.

Sandra appeared to give it a moment's thought, before her lips arched into a cool smile. "No," she said, and attacked.

Thank god for the training, because instinct kicked in and Felicity's hands came up just in time to stop Sandra's knee from sinking into her stomach. But before she could be too happy about that one development, Sandra twisted in one fluid assassin-trained motion and kicked Felicity squarely in the chest — sending her flying backward into a solid steel pipe.

Spoiler alert: colliding with any surface, not just a steel one, had a one-hundred-percent tendency to hurt. Like every dent and imperfection in the surface had been tattooed straight onto Felicity's skin from the impact. Her elbow smacked the steel — sending a numbing jolt from joint to wrist — and the gun went flying, spinning out of sight beneath a dense wall of hissing pipes.

Felicity coughed, trying to get her breath back while her feet slid clumsily across the damp floor. "Yeah," she grimaced. "Don't really…blame you…for that one."

"Poor little Felicity," Sandra purred, and Felicity stumbled away from the pipe, her movements completely graceless in comparison to Sandra's feline poise. "Trying not to be daddy's little girl."

Felicity's fingers scrabbled inside her pocket, searching for the smooth metal surface of an injector — praying that she still had backups.

She did, and practice told her exactly how to use it.

Except Sandra's fist came whooshing towards Felicity's face and forced her to duck. Somewhere above, she heard Diggle yell something, but it was taking all her concentration and energy to remember what Oliver had taught her. Using an opponent's strength against them — keep on the move — anticipate their next —

Felicity yelped and stumbled back to avoid Sandra's kick. There was a patch of skin, bared just above Sandra's collar, and Felicity whipped the injector out of her pocket, bringing it down in a downward stab —

An iron grip closed around her wrist and twisted it down by her side, forcing her limp fingers to drop the injector. The other collided with her throat, lifting her clean off her feet.

Felicity's back rammed into a wall of pipes and she choked, Sandra's hand crushing her windpipe.

"All you're doing is getting your friends killed," Sandra said, her face twisted in an unconvincing expression of sympathy. "For what? So you can push the world back into chaos? Starling's dying — and you're just wasting your time. Just _what_ is it you think you're doing?"

Felicity felt something hard dig against her back, some kind of handle. There was a probable chance of her being wrong, but with someone's hand around her throat and no help coming, she didn't have a lot of choices.

"Waiting…for you…to get _closer_ ," she coughed, and shoved the release valve down with her fist, blasting them both with white steam from above.

Sandra got a faceful of blinding gas and faltered, giving Felicity the time she needed to dive beneath the wall for her fallen gun.

The grip skittered against her sweaty palm, and Felicity was still on the ground when Sandra's shadow loomed over her.

_Come on come on come on —_

Suddenly — and not a moment sooner — the gun was in her hands and Felicity twisted, pointing it straight at Sandra, whose eyes widened in instinctive surprise.

"I _swear_ this isn't personal," Felicity said, and squeezed the trigger twice, sinking two nanite shots into Sandra's stomach.

The effect was instantaneous. Sandra's knees buckled and she collapsed on her back, convulsing as the nano-tech did its work. Felicity dragged herself off the ground, every joint in her body feeling like it'd been pulverized with a sledgehammer.

Seriously. Felicity was going to have a word with Oliver about his romantic history. Maybe some kind of early warning system in case his exes became psychos — via brainwashing or otherwise.

But before that — Diggle.

He was still dealing with two gigantic Bratva thugs (who put a whole new spin on the meaning of _big_ ), one of whom had him in a headlock.

Headlock guy's back was to Felicity, who acted without thinking. "John!" she shouted, and emptied her clip between the thug's improbably broad shoulders.

The bullets were basically blanks to anyone who wasn't brainwashed, but the surprise was enough to give Diggle the opportunity he needed. With a guttural heave, Diggle planted both feet on a wall of pipes and shoved, slamming the thug into a panel that erupted with sparks and left a faint smell of charred fabric in the air.

Diggle hit the ground and rolled, sweeping his legs across to knock the last guy's feet out from under him. The floor rattled noisily from the impact of a few hundred pounds of muscle, and Diggle was on top of him in a second, drawing his arm back for a punch. Two hits and a weird neck move later — the guy's tongue was lolling out of his mouth while he sprawled unconscious on the floor.

"Oliver taught me that one," Diggle grunted, holding his side.

Felicity rushed immediately to support him, ducking under his arm and trying gamely not to wheeze under Diggle's not-insignificant muscle mass.

"Thanks, Felicity." He coughed. "Ribs."

"Is that all?" Felicity asked. "Because you look like you need an ice pack for _everything_."

Diggle laughed, and winced from the _everything_ of his injuries. "I'll be fine. Come on — Oliver's waiting for us at control."

Felicity snorted. "If Oliver were to suddenly kick his habit of being late for everything, I doubt it'd happen in the middle of a war. We've got plenty of time."

* * *

The hallways were conspicuously silent, punctuated only by the creak of the steel walls and the persistent sputter of the fluorescent lights. There was no sign of Felicity and Diggle — or any indication at all that the path was being guarded.

Oliver's senses prickled with unease as he hurried towards the pre-arranged rendezvous point, the hallway just before control. He rounded the last corner — his heart in his throat — and stopped.

Because it was empty.

Something had gone wrong. They should have been waiting for him, which meant that the two of them must have been forced to detour — or they'd run into some kind of obstacle, another block in the path to Damien Darhk. Oliver reached for his earpiece.

"Felicity," he said. "Are you there? Fe—"

His earpiece shrilled suddenly with static and forced him to yank it off, wincing. It was still crackling as it rested innocuously in the palm of his hand, and he stared at the only connection between himself and Felicity — now making him think that something was very, very wrong.

Every instinct was in overdrive, every synapse firing off adrenaline inside his system. Something wasn't right. Something had gone wrong. Felicity wasn't safe. She wasn't —

The earpiece slipped soundlessly from his open hand when he turned — at the first scream. A single, drawn-out sound that seemed to reverberate along the walls, rattle inside his skull, as strong as the Canary Cry but somehow a thousand times more vulnerable.

The momentary shock of it didn't last long, and Oliver's heart seemed to stop, because he knew whose voice it was.

" _Felicity_ ," he said, and started to run.

He'd heard her scream like that before, shriek _no, no, no_ over and over again as she clawed her way through the nightmares terrorizing her sleep, the demons that had dogged her ever since they'd narrowly escaped her father in the decimated ARGUS headquarters.

It blinded Oliver with the worst scenarios his imagination could create, the darkest horrors that could tear the ragged scream from her throat.

The door was sealed shut against him, and Oliver reached it just as Felicity's voice arced into another agonized scream. He slammed his hand into the door in frustration, because someone was hurting her — someone was hurting her, and he couldn't stop it.

Almost, he was almost there.

Oliver raised his arm and stabbed an arrow into the console by the door. It crashed through the glass and wiring with a shower of sparks, and the steel panel hissed aside to let him into the room.

It was shadowed, lit only by the stray flashes of lightning from the raging storm and the dimmed glow of the surrounding screens, a circle of computers in a round room.

Felicity was nowhere to be seen.

There was a faint crackle behind him, the frayed noise of a recording beginning again, and the same sobbing scream arced into a crescendo, raising the hairs at the back of his neck.

Oliver realized what was happening — too late.

He turned, just in time to receive the knife that sank cleanly — silently — into his side. The blade was a shard of black ice, and Oliver's body froze instinctively from the shock, long enough for the needle to pierce his neck.

It was a sharp pain deep beneath his skin, and a sinking numbness that seemed to trickle steadily from the spot, like a poison being carried through his veins. Oliver tore himself away from the blade out of instinct, staggering backwards with his bow drawn and the arrow in it pointed at the uncertain attacker.

A face loomed out of the darkness, painted cruel by the shadows and with eyes that were almost — _almost_ — hers.

"Ah," said Damien, observing Oliver's surprise with pure satisfaction. "But you weren't expecting that, were you?"

Damien waved his hand, and Felicity's scream cut off abruptly into silence. "A recording," he explained. "Easy to manipulate — as my daughter will surely tell you. But you don't think that way, do you? When it comes to my Felicity, you will do _anything_ to protect her — even if it means walking straight into a trap."

A lead-heaviness pressed down inexorably on Oliver's limbs and chest, making it almost impossible to move, like it was an illusion that he'd ever had any control over them at all. The bow slipped out of his slack hands with a jarring sound, and Oliver landed hard on one knee, because he couldn't seem to stand. Not anymore.

"What did you do to me?" Oliver said, through gritted teeth.

Damien held up his left hand to show him the empty injector, and Oliver — all too late — understood.

"No," he groaned, twisting his head. "No."

It was almost impossible to move, and the effort alone was a dogged battle against the growing weight that pressed on Oliver's free will, preventing him from doing the one thing he needed to.

_You're assuming I'll let myself be taken alive._

There should have been other ways, but with darkness descending behind his eyes and the helpless knowledge that every second meant control slipped further from his grasp — Oliver could see it ending in only one.

There was a single arrow in his bow, and he had seconds to use it. He'd killed before — sometimes in minutes, sometimes in a single breath — and Oliver knew it was better to die than to be used like some kind of puppet to hurt Felicity.

Oliver snatched the arrow off the floor with a ragged gasp and drove it up towards his chest. In his mind's eye, he saw himself stabbed through the heart again, bleeding out on a cold floor — better that than to _risk_ hurting the woman he loved, because he couldn't live with himself if he did.

But Damien's hand closed easily — almost contemptuously — around Oliver's wrist, and he twisted the arrow out of his grasp with a tutting sound.

_No. Please, God, no._

Damien turned the arrow slowly in his hands. "You have a strong will, Mr. Queen," he remarked. "Most would have succumbed by now, but we must all face facts — you're simply not strong enough to stop _this_."

Oliver knew he was right, but he forced himself to shake his head. _No_. He wouldn't — he couldn't —

It was the hardest thing Oliver had ever done, marshaling all his strength — all his will — into one last fight. He planted his hands on Damien's shoulders and shoved, with enough force to send him stumbling back. " _NO!_ " he bellowed.

Something hardened in Damien's expression, something elemental and raw and dangerous. He was moving rapidly towards Oliver — the bloodstained knife in his hand flashed again — and Oliver groaned, feeling the knife sink into the already-open wound in his side. There was nothing of the earlier detachedness in Damien's stare now, just dark, crackling _anger_ , as he twisted the blade buried in Oliver's body and his vision momentarily went black from the agony of feeling his flesh tear and bleed.

"Oliver Queen is dead," Damien declared. "You are not Oliver Queen."

Shock was the body's reflexive response against feeling pain, but Oliver fought — harder than he'd ever fought in his life — to stay where he was, to stay with the agony. Because it was his last tether — his only tether — to staying as himself.

Then, out of nowhere…

Felicity's hand was on his heart and she was saying something to him.

_The more we have to lose, the harder we fight. And that…makes_ _all_ _the difference in the world._

Oliver's eyes widened at the realization, of what — _who_ — his real tether was.

There were two things Oliver Queen thought of, at the end.

The first was a memory, the single, untarnished memory of Felicity walking towards him in her red dress, tipping her head up to the rain and laughing on their wedding day. She spun in a slow circle as she walked, her arms out by her sides, and Oliver felt himself reach for her, right then, even though his hand only grasped at the empty air in front of him.

The second was an almost-memory, maybe a half-forgotten dream, but it blazed bright with clarity in spite of the hazy darkness threatening to take it from him. It was Felicity smiling at him under the sunlight that shone onto their shared bed, the two of them enveloped by the warmth of a new day. They whispered and laughed to each other — about what, Oliver didn't know — while she trailed her fingers down the side of his face, drinking him in with eyes the color of a cloudless morning.

 _I love you, Oliver Queen,_ she whispered, and they kissed — easy, unhurried — their lips sharing a smile more precious than words could express. It wasn't the first time Oliver had Felicity in his arms, but he still waited until the absolute last second to close his eyes, because he wanted every moment of her, every secret look and every small touch — savoring every breath of loving and being in love with Felicity Smoak.

 _Queen_. She was Felicity Queen now.

Something had changed, a deep, fundamental shift. Oliver felt as though something had slipped through his fingers, he was now watching his body from a distance, powerless to lift even a finger to resist.

The implant had done its job, and Oliver's outstretched hand fell back to his side, as open and empty as his eyes. He was on his knees, and in a gesture that was almost kind, Damien slipped a finger under Oliver's chin and tipped his head back so that he could see his face. "Now," he said, "who are you?"

_Oliver Queen. My name is Oliver Queen._

But there was only silence, because Oliver couldn't say a word. Damien's hand was on his shoulder, a smile spreading slowly across his face.

"Good," he said. "Very good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there's anything you've learned from reading my stuff, it's that nothing ever good happens when Oliver and Felicity are separated in a battle. *insert ominous laugh*
> 
> On another note: How freaking CUTE was that new promo? Oliver's going to propose! Not sure which is funnier, that he's such a sap that he stuck it inside the whipped cream on a souffle HE BAKED HIMSELF, or that he got proposal-blocked by his sister and the ex he was chronically running away from committing to...(loving the painful irony of these things)


	77. To Save a Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, besides the Chapter 45/46 update, this is quite possibly the fastest I've written for Legacies. But I'm hopping on a flight back to London tomorrow and I need to know (for the eleven hours on said flight) that I made things at least a little better. I know some people were concerned about whether I'd be taking things into the non-con territory with the mind control story, and I can tell you that unequivocally, it will NEVER happen in any one of my fics. I don't do that, and it's all I'm going to say on the subject.

"I'm gonna have a word with Oliver about his — _ah_ — dating history," Diggle grunted, holding his side gingerly as they walked. "Vigilante with a crossbow problem and assassin — I can handle. But head of Russian mafia who sends thugs to beat us up? Crossing the line."

Felicity still had Diggle's arm over her shoulders, which made it a little difficult neck-wise for her to turn and give him a sagely look. "To be fair," she said, a little short of breath, "she did have a nano-tech implant subverting her free will — and I'm not entirely sure she _was_ his girlfriend. More of a… _special personal friend_ -type situation."

Diggle's laugh came out more like a wheeze. "Felicity, you are the _only_ person I know who could possibly defend Oliver's psychotic ex-girlfriends after one of them just kicked the stuffing out of you."

" _Hey,_ my stuffing's more intact than yours right now," Felicity pointed out, prodding her own ribs for emphasis, which only made Diggle wince. "For some reason," she added, because it was true. She'd fully expected Sandra to kick her ass, and that not having happened was both an ego boost and a little bit of a brain teaser.

"It's not just dumb luck, Felicity," Diggle said, patting her back. "Everything you think shows on your face, but when push comes to shove — you always manage to surprise us. It's a good skill to have."

Felicity rubbed the side of her head at the memory of cracking it into Oliver's, back in the new hideout. "I just hope Connor never finds out I shot his mom twice in the stomach," she said ruefully. "Not the best way to make a first impression."

"If the kid's anything like Oliver, he'll stop being weirded out by everything by the time he hits puberty."

Felicity smiled at the thought of Connor, who was basically Oliver in miniature — minus the terrible math grade. "He is," she said. "He's beautiful."

"Bodes well for the two of you, then," Diggle remarked, good-naturedly teasing as always.

An hour ago, the comment would have just made Felicity blush, but now she glanced shiftily at her belly, as if the truth had been tattooed across the (mercifully still flat-ish) skin. It wasn't that she didn't trust Diggle — because he was unquestioned godfather material — but it was her first time using the words _I'm_ and _pregnant_ side by side in a sentence, and she sort of wanted the father to be the first person to hear them.

High standards? Probably. Since the father of the baby/shiny new husband was currently roaming the hallways in a suit of green leather.

Oh, and they were about to take down the baby's grandfather.

There was a headache somewhere down the line, just biding its time for when Felicity had to explain the Queen and Smoak family history, probably to her and Oliver's future children (fingers crossed).

But that could wait.

"We're here," Felicity said, stopping at the corridor they were meant to meet Oliver in. Predictably — empty. "And he's late. Again. Color me surprised."

Diggle slipped his arm off her shoulders with a murmured _thank you_ , and took a few steps down the hallway. Felicity didn't know what he was looking for, but the frown on his forehead suggested that he didn't like what he was seeing. "Should we try him?" he asked, his hand slipping to the holstered gun in his belt.

Felicity tapped on her earpiece to open the channel. "Oliver," she said, and waited. "Oliver — are you there?"

A low, persistent crackle of static, but no answer.

Felicity bit back the instinctive question, even though the tamped-down worries from before were making a reappearance. She'd been so sure that Oliver beat Malcolm, but what if he didn't? What if —

"Felicity," Diggle said. He had his gun out and was staring at something around the corner.

Felicity hurried to his side. "What? Did you —"

She trailed off, because there was a single green arrow protruding from a panel at the side of the door.

 _Oliver_.

Silently, they turned to look at each other, the expressions on their faces telling the other what they needed to know. Something was very, very wrong.

* * *

Oliver was losing blood. He could feel it sliding slowly, wetly, down the shaft of the arrow buried in his side, dripping between his fingers and spotting the floor around his knees with gleaming black drops.

"Very good," Damien said, loping down the staircase behind him. "Now take it out, and do it again."

Oliver shut his eyes as his arm moved automatically to do Damien's bidding. Trying to stop himself was like trying to shout through a steel wall. His mind was on one side, his body on the other — and right now, the latter was about to hurt itself according to Damien Darhk's instructions.

Air hissed between his teeth as his clenched fist tore the arrow from his wounded flesh. The scattered droplets smeared together on the steel floor when Oliver thrust out his free hand to stop himself from falling. The edges of his vision were fraying to black, and he was having trouble focusing — every breath sounded unnaturally loud to him, grating on his senses and setting off a fresh wave of pain.

"Did you hear me?" Damien asked, sounding only mildly interested. "I said _do it, again_."

 _No_ , Oliver thought, and before the arrow could pierce his skin again, he slipped. The arrow skittered away from him and his fist clenched on the blood-smeared ground, trying to find his balance. Whether on purpose or by accident, Oliver didn't know, but his pulse quickened at the knowledge that he was still present, still fighting.

Damien sighed and strode towards him. He snatched the arrow smoothly off the ground and crouched at Oliver's side, twirling the shaft between his fingers. "You know, this would be _so_ much easier if you just stopped fighting me," he said, to Oliver's downturned face.

Oliver didn't answer. Damien raised an eyebrow and seized the back of Oliver's neck, forcing his head back so they were looking at each other. There were a wealth of things Oliver would have done to hurt Damien if he could, and he had no doubts whatsoever that the truth showed plainly on his face — whatever his state of mind was meant to be.

Damien's eyes were as hard as flint, and Oliver knew it was coming. The arrowhead sank deep into his open wound, and Oliver's vision throbbed again. It was an inch-by-inch battle of wills, and Oliver's only avenue of resistance was to force himself not to make a sound.

He didn't. The pent-up breath burned inside his throat, but he forced it back down. Not a sound. He wouldn't give Damien the satisfaction.

"I know your training, Oliver," Damien said, nodding his head with affected sympathy. "I know what you've suffered through, and this is _nothing_ compared to the worst horrors of your past. But it won't be for long. Because if my daughter feels for you even half of what you feel for her, she will come rushing through those doors, and one of two things will happen."

Oliver nearly passed out when Damien wrenched the shaft cleanly from his body and held it up to the light, examining the arrowhead that was nearly black with blood. "The first — if she continues to resist — I will make her watch you hurt yourself. Your mind may still rebel against my technology, but if I do _this_ —"

There was a click, and Oliver felt the cold weight of a gun against his forehead. Damien's expression hadn't changed at all, not as he stared down at his son-in-law, one light touch away from putting a bullet through his skull.

"You won't resist. You cannot resist. Oliver Queen may have fought the fearsome Ra's al Ghul in order to live a life with his great love, but he will still die in front of her if I pull the trigger. My daughter first unlocked ORACLE when I had a gun to your head. Let's see if patterns repeat themselves, shall we?"

The muzzle increased its pressure on Oliver's skin, but he didn't make a sound. Damien exhaled, as if he was about to say something that tired him.

"I'm afraid the second possibility is rather more unpleasant, and as a father — I must say that I do hope I never have to see it. Unfortunately, if my daughter refuses to see reason, I shall have no other alternative but to compel the information from her. Your training with Amanda Waller, I trust, included interrogative techniques, did they not?"

Something in Oliver's eyes seemed to amuse Damien. "Ah, you understand my meaning. Yes, I'm afraid that if my daughter continues to refuse, your skills as an interrogator will be put to use. As stubborn as my daughter is, I doubt she'll survive them — which is why I hope you'll be especially careful. It would irreparably slow down my plans if my daughter died during her interrogation."

Damien's hand pressed firmly against Oliver's neck. "I know that it will hurt you — as much as hurts her. So take my advice," he said, enunciating each syllable with intent. "Let go. If Oliver Queen is dead, then Oliver Queen won't feel the pain. It's only in your best interests to listen."

With a final pat, Damien tossed the arrow down between Oliver's clenched fists. "Now," he said. "Do it again."

Oliver's breathing was ragged and unsteady as he pushed off the ground. There was no way out of the future Damien was describing — not one that he could see — and Oliver hated him for it, more than he'd ever hated anyone in his life.

He'd survived purgatory, he'd survived the island, but he'd never survived anything like this. He wanted the seconds to pass, in the futile — _human_ — hope that something might end the pain, but he wanted time to stop and never go again, because any minute would bring Felicity through the doors in front of him, and everything would begin.

But he closed his eyes as his fingers wrapped around the arrow shaft, and his arm raised itself high.

Then —

" _Oliver._ "

For the longest, most painful moment, Oliver prayed that he was only dreaming. Not Felicity — not her.

But he opened his eyes and saw her standing in the doorway with Diggle.

As adrenaline surged through his bruised and bloodied body at the sight of his worst fear about to happen, Oliver tried to speak. He tried to use his voice, feeling his pulse race — feverishly fast — and his breaths turn erratic, harsh and rasping from the effort. Warm blood oozed from between his fingers at the sheer — futile — _attempt_ to make Felicity understand that she had to run.

 _Please, Felicity,_ he thought. _Please, please, run_.

_Run._

* * *

It was like something out of the pit, something Felicity wouldn't have even _known_ to be afraid of until it happened. Everything, heightened — the red-smeared floor around Oliver, the harshness of his breathing — the dream-like unreality of the scene contrasting with the undeniable truth that Oliver was on his knees, pale and glassy-eyed from exhaustion, an arrow protruding from his side and stained dark with his own blood.

Felicity didn't remember moving. She didn't feel Diggle grasp at the back of her jacket to stop her. She didn't hear the wounded noise that escaped her lips, or the sharp ache inside her chest at the sight of her husband.

She rushed towards Oliver, the gun clattering to the ground where she dropped it, sliding a little on the slick floor when she went on her knees in front of him, cupping his face in her shaking hands. He didn't make a sound — he didn't even twitch when she touched him, although his skin burned to the touch, slippery from sweat.

Felicity's hand went to his side and came away almost completely red.

Blood, he was covered in blood — his — the arrow — _Malcolm_ —

"What happened?" she asked, her voice rising as Oliver swayed, like he barely had the strength to support himself. "Oliver, what happened? Did Malcolm do this to you? Oliver —"

Oliver was trying to say something, but the words kept sticking in his throat. He didn't seem to realize — or care — that the effort was making his wound bleed even worse than it already was.

"You son of a bitch," Diggle snarled.

Felicity looked around, incredulous that he would shout at Oliver when he was this injured, until she realized that he was talking to someone behind her.

Damien had been standing at the foot of a staircase, observing the whole scene with an expression of perfect detachment.

"How good of you to find me," he said, tilting his head slightly to the side. "Felicity — we've been waiting for you."

Felicity felt her whole body shake with a rising sense of anger — strong enough to blacken her vision and make her reconsider every choice she'd made about her father since the beginning. "You did this to him," she said, in a dangerously low voice. "You _sick, twisted_ —"

"I think you'll find that he did that to himself," Damien interrupted. "I merely put his — _skills —_ to good use."

Felicity snatched her gun off the ground, not caring that the metal slipped against the palm of her hand — because all she knew was that her hands were covered in Oliver's blood, and she was more than capable of killing her father for hurting him.

"John, change of plan," she said. "We're shooting him."

"With pleasure," Diggle answered without hesitation.

"Ah," Damien held up his hand, showing them the single black switch between finger and thumb. "I wouldn't. I _truly_ would not."

Oliver was trying to speak again — she could feel the muscles in his throat working frantically beneath her hand — but nothing came out. Like he just… _couldn't._

Felicity looked from her father to Oliver, and in one — sickening — moment, she understood…everything.

"Implant," she said, faintly. "You —"

"Very _good_ , Felicity," said Damien. "Quite right. There is an implant at the back of his neck, one packed with the same explosives that nearly killed you when you attempted to disarm Sara Lance. It made him extraordinarily receptive to my words — such as the suggestion that he stab himself in the side with his own arrows for the last hour, _and_ —" He held up the switch again when Diggle looked like he was about to fire and kill him "— functions as a deterrent for any foolish moves. If either of you so much as lifts a finger without my permission, I will kill him — easily. Am I understood?"

Neither of them answered, and Damien smiled. "Good. Now drop your weapons, or he dies."

"This is a fight between you and me," Felicity said. "Not Oliver. Let him go. Dad, please let him go."

"Oh, Felicity." Damien sounded almost disappointed. "We both know that's not true. We both know that Oliver would kill to protect you — which makes it his fight as much as yours."

Damien indicated the switch in his hand. "A rather uneven fight, if I do say so myself."

Diggle refused to lower his gun. "Save it, Darhk. We all know you'll kill me and Oliver once you get what you want."

"Of course," Damien agreed. "But I wasn't aware that you had any say in the matter whatsoever. After all, you are — as the saying goes — out of cards to play. _Drop your weapons_."

No one moved.

"Fine." Damien looked unsurprised. "A little demonstration, then? Oliver — would you be so kind as to show your friends what you've been doing for the last hour?"

There was a shift in Oliver's breathing, just the slightest hitch to show that he'd even heard Damien at all. Nothing in his body language demonstrated resistance, not when his fist clenched around the arrow shaft and when — before Felicity could stop him — he tore it from his body.

The action nearly sent Oliver sprawling, but he never made a sound — not when Felicity caught him on her own shoulder, sinking a little under his weight. She'd let go of the gun to hold him, her arms behind his neck as if she could shield him from Damien with her body. His blood was sickeningly warm on her clothes, soaking gradually through her shirt as she held him in her arms.

"Oliver, don't," Diggle's voice was uneven with emotion. "You don't have to do what Darhk says. You're stronger than this."

There was no sign that Oliver had heard his best friend, and Felicity's eyes stung with tears as she felt him move to do her father's bidding. "Stop, please stop," she said, the words escaping her before she could bite them back, pride be damned. "Please — no, _don't_ —!"

Her fingers closed around Oliver's wrist, stopping him from driving the arrow deep again. Felicity fought Oliver, the tears spilling from her eyes and down her cheeks, because it was perverse — it was twisted — and as weak as Oliver had seemed when he leaned on her to keep his balance, he was still overpoweringly strong when he was trying to hurt himself at Damien's order.

The arrowhead was almost at the ragged wound now…Felicity could feel her fingers slipping against Oliver's fist…no, no, no — _please_ — she couldn't bear to watch him hurt himself again, not again —

A pained gasp escaped Felicity and she did the one thing she could think of. She bent her head and pressed her lips to Oliver's. His mouth tasted of rust and salt and fear, but all Felicity remembered — _chose_ to remember — was the overwhelming sweetness of all the times they'd kissed each other since the beginning. Not just the sleepy mornings and the whispered _good nights_ , but the kisses before Oliver left the Foundry with the others, and the _welcome homes_ when he returned, the stolen moments in the middle of pure chaos — _I'll see you soon_ and _come back_ — because he'd always done it, somehow.

He'd always come back to her.

" _Come back_ ," she whispered. "Please, Oliver. Come back."

Maybe Felicity had imagined it, but she felt Oliver kiss her too — just the slightest increase of pressure against her lips — like a secret only they knew.

He didn't say anything — he couldn't — but Felicity felt him hesitate, a delay long enough for her to wrench the bloodied arrow from his grasp and hurl it away from them. It spun away into the shadows — a flash of metal, gone as soon as it had come — and Oliver's hand dropped empty back to his side.

" _Oliver_ ," Felicity couldn't smile, not like this, but she pressed her forehead to his, unspeakably glad that he was still fighting. It was a flutter of hope, a small, weak thing in comparison to everything else, but it was there — it was _there_.

"Pitiful," Damien said, and Felicity fell back when he hauled Oliver to his feet. The switch was held tauntingly high in his hand — an explicit warning for them not to interfere — as he bent forward to look Oliver in the eye.

"It seems like the only thing stronger than your drive to obey is your love for my daughter — well, I'm afraid there's only one thing to do now, isn't there?"

He kicked Oliver to his knees again and pulled out a gun, pressing it to the side of Oliver's head.

" _NO!_ " Felicity screamed, but Damien knocked her aside with a contemptuous flick of his arm. Diggle caught her before she hit the ground, and winded as she was — she fought against his arms, trying to reach Oliver.

It only made things worse. Because Diggle was acting as Oliver's best friend and brother, the person he trusted most in the world to keep her safe — and if he was trying to keep Felicity away from Oliver, it meant that he could see things weren't going their way.

"ORACLE," Damien said. "Hand over executive command, or he dies."

"Go to hell," Felicity snarled. "If you kill Oliver, I swear you won't get ORACLE."

The edge of Damien's mouth curled in a cold smile. "A bluff, Felicity. You think I won't do it, but you know that I have no reservations against killing someone in front of my daughter, much less her —"

"— _husband_ ," Felicity said, every inch of her sparking like a live wire. She'd passed _Angry_ when she found out about the implant. _Furious_ was when Damien told Oliver to stab himself in the gut.

This — _this_ — was something else entirely.

Lightning and firestorms had nothing on Felicity when she was this _perfectly_ enraged.

"Oliver's my husband now, dad. I married him before we came here. Mom was there, you remember her?" Felicity's hand slipped inside Diggle's jacket, and she felt him tense — but they'd worked together long enough for him not to give her away.

Felicity had it in her hand now, and shivers ran up her arms and the back of her neck, knowing what she was about to do.

"She told me to give you hell," she said, in the same hard voice. "And whatever you seem to _think_ — I'm a lot more hers than I am yours. I may work best in ones and zeroes, and I _may_ be a hacker, but I am Donna Smoak's daughter, through and through. Not Damien Darhk's. The _best_ of me, I got from her. You're just the devil on my shoulder, and I'm not afraid of you."

"Touching," Damien said, his eyes dark and hard. "But also foolish. _That_ — I do not deny you inherited from your mother. Marrying Oliver Queen was one of the biggest mistakes you could ever make, and it certainly will not stop me from killing him. Which returns us to where we began — ORACLE. Executive command, for Oliver Queen's life. What will you choose?"

"Neither." Felicity turned to show Damien what she had in her hands, what she'd taken from Diggle's jacket. It was a gun, a fully functional, completely lethal handgun, the muzzle pressed snugly to the side of her neck.

"Do it, dad," she said. "You kill Oliver — and I die too. No ORACLE, and we all lose everything."

* * *

Oliver had never felt more powerless in his life. He remembered how he'd felt when Slade had Felicity at swordpoint, and later Ra's al Ghul. This was worse — so much worse. He'd always been able to fight back, to fight for her.

But his body was no longer his, and now Felicity had a gun to her own neck, threatening to pull the trigger.

Oliver understood her well enough — from the blazing defiance in her posture, down to the unadulterated fury radiating off her like an aura — to know that she wasn't making empty threats. She'd do it, in a heartbeat, if it meant that ORACLE was protected against someone like Damien Darhk.

"Let him go," she said. "Or I pull the trigger."

Damien studied her with an unblinking stare. "You wouldn't."

But Oliver heard it — the faintest undercurrent of fear. Damien Darhk was afraid.

"Someone once told me that everyone I've ever faced has a problem of underestimating what I can do," Felicity said, with a ghost of a smile. "Slade Wilson, Ra's al Ghul, now you."

Her eyes flickered towards Oliver — and he knew that she remembered, sitting at the edge of the water with him in Nanda Parbat. Oliver had told her that Damien Darhk didn't know who she was, that he didn't understand her — and Damien truly didn't. Because there was nothing Felicity wouldn't do for the people she loved, and her father was a fool for questioning it.

"Let him go, dad," Felicity said, with nothing but steel in her voice. "Or you'll find out just what I'm willing to do for my friends."

"I'd listen to her," Diggle added laconically. "She doesn't make a lot of threats, but when she does…"

His tone left no question as to his meaning.

Damien surveyed them all with his trademark inscrutability. The tension in the air grew razor-sharp, a silent battle between father and daughter — a high-stakes bluff in a game none of them could afford to lose.

Then —

Damien dropped the switch at his feet and crushed it with his boot, before lowering the gun from Oliver's head. He heard Felicity release her breath in one pent-up gasp of relief.

"Fine," Damien said icily. "Mr. Queen will be released once ORACLE is mine, and be assured, Mr. Diggle, that I can as readily kill him with a command as I can with a switch. But you have my word that I won't kill him once ORACLE is under my control. Felicity — come with me."

For the longest moment, Felicity didn't move.

"Felicity — _come_."

Stiffly, she took a step forward. The gun was still in her hand, but she walked slowly towards her father, her head held high, with no indication that she was even submitting at all.

Diggle's gun was still pointed at Damien's head, but with Felicity in the line of fire, Oliver was sure he wouldn't pull the trigger. Felicity passed Oliver on her way to the computers and he felt her stoop to brush her lips to his cheek.

" _Trust me_ ," she whispered, as soft as and devoid of blame as her kiss, and then she was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mini rant here (skip on unless you want to read about school stuff):
> 
> Urgh, so my 2nd year starts on the 21st for me, and I have a research seminar in Tort law first thing in the flipping Monday morning. Fun fact: tort professors will email you while you're on holiday and happily/cheerily tell you that you're expected to do a buttload of reading for the discussion, but no worries, because it is "well under a 100 pages". I haven't looked at it yet (writing fanfiction ho ho ho) but I'm guessing single-spaced and very boring. Fantastic.  
> *blows brains out*
> 
> AND THERE'S NO WIFI IN THE APARTMENT AT LEAST UNTIL FRIDAY. (Cannot. Live. Dies. Silently.)
> 
> I'm not sure I'll be alive for Oct 7.


	78. Another Way

Felicity's hands were lit an icy, underwater blue as she waited for ORACLE's interface to open up. Her rewritten ORACLE. Hers — now about to be Damien's, just as he wanted.

"Felicity Megan Smoak," she said, and watched the screen dissolve into the flood of ever-flowing information.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Damien said, standing by her side. She hated the feeling of his voice near her ear — about as pleasant as a snake slithering through the grass — and there was more admiration in his voice than she'd ever heard him use before.

"Color me surprised," she muttered, typing out the command to alter executive status. "Prefers artificial intelligence database over own daughter. Father of the year."

Damien touched her shoulder, and it took all of Felicity's self-control not to thrust him away from her. "We could have been masters of ORACLE together," he said. "You could have joined ARGUS — then HIVE. They've watched you all your life, you know. They would have welcomed you into their world with open arms."

"HIVE is a terrorist organization. Blackmail. Assassinations. _This_ —" she said, indicating the Sentinel Initiative on standby, ready to be linked up with ORACLE, "—which is on a _whole_ other level of evil."

Damien merely shrugged. "One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter," he said. "HIVE wants to free the world from chaos. Order, uniformity, safety — we're only trying to make the world a better place by ridding it of potential risks."

" _Quis custodiet ipsos custodes_ ," Felicity repeated. "You think Oliver, and Barry, and John, and me — you think all of us are dangerous because of what we've gone through — what we might become if we just… _break_. But what if you rewrote ORACLE to be _the_ guardian? What if it was rewritten so that not even the guardians would be protected if they went bad?"

"ORACLE is only powerful in the hands of the guardian, Felicity," Damien said, shaking his head as if she was being stupid. "It takes on a character from he who wields it. Why should ORACLE be entrusted to become the ultimate judge?"

" _Trust_ ," Felicity said, turning to look at him. "That's the one thing HIVE can't do. It doesn't trust. You have a big plan to save the world, but only if you're the one doing the saving. If you really wanted to keep the world safe, you wouldn't make yourself immune from ORACLE. But you're afraid — and I feel sorry for you."

Damien's gun pressed against her side. "Do as you're told, Felicity. Unless you want your _husband_ to bleed even more than he already has."

Felicity spared him one disgusted glance before she faced the screen again, where ORACLE was awaiting her instruction. She started to type, and within a few strokes, she had the request completed.

" _Confirm_ ," ORACLE intoned, " _executive command granted to Damien Darhk. Executive command rescinded from Felicity Megan Smoak. Proceed?_ "

Felicity shut her eyes — just for a second — and opened them again. "Proceed," she said.

" _Recognized, Damien Darhk — Oracle._ "

Damien let out a harsh laugh of joy, savage delight etched into every line on his face as he stared at the new ORACLE.

"Congratulations," Felicity said dully. "You now officially deserve to have another circle of hell created for you. Let Oliver go — you gave us your word."

Damien glanced away from the computers. He swept his hand across the console and the screens went dark, plunging them into the dim, bluish-red light of pre-dawn. The storm had finally died down, and it was a clear morning again.

"Yes," he said coolly. "I did promise, didn't I?"

Something in his tone put her on edge and Felicity reached for her gun again, but Damien merely raised his hands sarcastically by his side. "Oliver will come to no harm by my doing," he said. "But I can't guarantee he won't be harmed by yours and Mr. Diggle's."

"What are you talking about?" Felicity said slowly.

Out of nowhere, Damien's hand whipped across her face, a blow hard enough to make white lights explode behind Felicity's eyes and send her crashing across the floor, her ears ringing and the taste of blood in her mouth.

"Mr. Queen," Damien said, with a dark undercurrent of amusement. "Kill Mr. Diggle and my daughter. I no longer have any use for them."

"NO!" Diggle fired, and the bullet just — _just_ — missed Damien. Felicity saw him clutch at his face, as if the bullet had seared past his cheek, but Diggle never got to fire another shot, because there was a muffled crash when Oliver lunged at him, forced to do as Damien said.

By the time Felicity managed to pick up her gun, Damien was already racing up the staircase and out of their reach. Her aim was off from being hit in the head, and Felicity's shots sparked off the banisters with no effect.

Damien slipped through the doors and was gone. They were too late.

* * *

Oliver sank his fist into Diggle's gut and felt him double over from the blow, the breath rushing from between his teeth. He grabbed Diggle's shoulders, meaning to punctuate the hit with his knee, but his best friend knew enough from their sparring to anticipate what he'd do next, and slammed him against the wall, hard enough to dislodge a steel panel from the facade.

Even though Oliver struggled hard against Diggle's grip, trying to get free, he was doing all he could to hold back. The wound in his side was slowing him down, blood loss accomplishing the rest, but even at half his usual speed, Oliver's strength was still dangerous, especially since Diggle had been injured too.

His leg came into contact with Diggle's already-bruised ribs, and he faltered. Oliver's body went on the offensive, forcing Diggle into retreat.

"I know you, Oliver!" Diggle shouted, blocking Oliver's punches. "You can fight him — you're strong enough to beat this — you — just — have — to — fight — back!"

 _How?_ Oliver had been fighting to breach the wall between his mind and his control since the beginning, and the wound was doing nothing to keep him present. It was draining him, making it even harder to hold onto himself.

Diggle roared in pain when Oliver landed a punch under his guard, dropping to his knees from the pain. It was coming — Oliver knew it — and it was all he could do to stop himself from going for his bow.

He couldn't hurt his best friend — the man who'd married him and the love of his life — the man who was the closest thing to a brother he'd had since Tommy. When Oliver's fingers closed around his fallen bow, he realized that he _could_ speak, after all.

" _Diggle…_ " he hissed. " _Run_. Get…out…of here."

Diggle spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor beside him, pulling himself up — painfully — to rest on his knees. "Remember when I told you…that no one was getting left behind?" he coughed. "I'm not leaving you behind, Oliver, and I'm not letting my brother go at this alone. I trust you. You won't kill me."

Oliver's vision blurred at the blatant, unquestioned trust in his best friend's eyes, even as his hand reached into his quiver for an arrow.

" _Please_ ," Oliver repeated, unsure whether he was talking to himself or to Diggle. "Don't."

Diggle's hands clenched into fists, but he dug his heels in. "I'm not leaving you, Oliver. You can fight this — I know you can fight this. Not just for me — do it for her, for Felicity. _Your_ Felicity."

"I can't." Oliver's fingers were shaking on the bowstring now, slowly drawing it back to aim. "John — I'm sorry — I'm sorry, but I can't. _I_ —"

Diggle's eyes widened at something behind Oliver's shoulder, and in a movement that was all too familiar — a shape darted between the two men, arms held high.

Felicity stood between Oliver and Diggle, her chin raised and posture unyielding, seemingly unafraid of the arrowhead hovering just between her collarbones, and the fact that she was close — so close to death.

Like the first time they'd seen each other again after she'd lost him to the League. He'd almost killed Diggle then, but that was nothing to what was happening — what was going to happen — now.

"Felicity." If Oliver's voice had been unsteady when he'd spoken to Diggle, it was truly shaking now. "Please go."

Oliver had never pleaded with her like this before, and he could see from the tears in her eyes that she knew it too. They overflowed when she shook her head, stubborn to the last. There was a small trickle of blood running down the side of her face, and a crimson flush along one cheek from where Damien had slapped her, but she'd never looked more defiant, more fearless.

"No," she answered. "I'm not leaving you."

Her ring gleamed, one of the pair they'd exchanged not one day ago, promising love and trust for the rest of their lives. But it wasn't enough — it wasn't enough to stop his body from putting an arrow through her chest.

"Do you remember what I said to you on the plane?" she asked.

"Yes," Oliver said, without hesitation. "And I'm trying — Felicity — I'm trying, but Darhk's too strong, and I can't — I _can't_ — see another way. Please don't let me hurt you."

" _The more we have to lose, the harder we fight. And that…makes all the difference in the world,_ " Felicity repeated. "Oliver — we're human, and the more we have to lose, the harder we'll fight. _I_ can't stop fighting for you because I — _we_ — have more to lose now, and I wanted to wait for the right time to tell you, but there might not be another time and you have to know — you _have_ to —"

"What are you talking about?" Oliver's teeth were gritted from the fierce struggle to delay his instincts, if only by seconds, and he was losing. He was losing, and she was going to die unless she saved herself. "I know what we have to lose, Felicity, and I'm not strong enough to stop it. I love you, and I can't —"

"—you _can_ , Oliver."

"Why?" he asked, breathless in his desperation not to lose this last fight.

Something in Felicity's expression blazed bright, almost blinding to look at in its intensity. It was everything — love, faith, hope — all that Felicity Smoak was and all that Felicity Queen would be, and the last thing he could bear to do was disappoint her.

Oliver and Felicity Queen looked at each other. "Because I'm pregnant," she said, in the voice more tender than anything he deserved. "I'm pregnant, Oliver. It's our baby, and you have to fight. Because I can't do this on my own, because there's more to lose now, and you — _can't_ — lose. Not for me, not for our baby. I love you and I trust you, Oliver. _Fight_ — _back_."

For the longest moment, Oliver was just stunned, too stunned to move. Felicity was pregnant. She was carrying their child. He was going to be a father.

More to lose.

But all the reasons to fight. Because he loved her, because she believed he could, and because after everything he'd put her through — then and now — he owed her that. To stay by her in those nine months, to hold her hand and carry her burdens, to support her through the pain, to watch her hold their child in her arms…

It was worth it — worth it all and more. It was more than a tether — it was hope — a belief against all odds, the ultimate act of trust from Felicity to him.

 _Fight back_.

So Oliver did.

And the arrow soared from his bow with a crisp _snap_.

* * *

_I'm pregnant._

When Felicity imagined making the pregnancy announcement to the father of the baby and the love of her life, an oozing side wound, a semi-darkened room and their bleeding best friend had _not_ been a part of the dream scenario.

Neither had the arrow quivering in the wall above her head. But before she could question it, Oliver crashed shoulder-first into the wall, his bow spinning away from them into the shadows.

"Felicity," he growled. "My quiver — arrows — _cure_ —"

Felicity didn't need telling twice. Oliver pinning himself against the wall was enough of an improvement from before, but —

"Oliver, _don't_!" Felicity shouted, as he drew back his arm — about to stab himself through the leg with an arrow.

"I need to —" The words were becoming more labored now, as if the implant had sensed his almost-successful rebellion. Oliver slammed his fist into the wall, snarling the words. "Felicity, _now!_ "

Diggle caught Oliver's wrist before the arrow could spear his thigh, planting his open hand against Oliver's chest with the other. "I got you," Diggle said, shaking him firmly. "I got you, Oliver."

Felicity slipped the quiver from Oliver's back and spilled the arrows across the floor. Good _lord_ , she needed to have a word with him about his quiver organization skills. The color markers and arrowheads were confusing shapes in the half-darkness, and the fierce struggle between Oliver and Diggle was unequivocally _not_ helping.

Jettison — explosive — flare — jettison again — regular —

" _Felicity!_ "

"I know — I'm trying — I'm —"

_Nanite._

Oh god, she hated pointy objects. Felicity snatched it off the floor — ducking narrowly under a flailing arm — and yanked Oliver's collar down far enough to sink the needle into his neck.

Her stomach gave a nasty heave at the sickening _give_ of stabbing someone with a needle, but Felicity held it there until Oliver went still. Diggle and Felicity looked at each other, hardly daring to believe it, until Oliver gave a groan and slid slowly to the ground.

Slowly, exhaustedly, all three of them sank to their knees, panting like they'd all just run a marathon.

"That was…" Diggle said, "a close call."

"Too close," Oliver said, his voice as coarse as gravel. "I'm sorry…for everything. John — Felicity —!"

He was thrown back into the wall by the force of Felicity's hug. She knew he was injured, and she knew they were short on time, but she wasn't going to let Oliver go without making sure he knew.

"Thank god," she whispered against his neck. "You're back."

Oliver's hand came up to stroke her back. "You asked me to," he replied, and they looked at each other. "Are you really —?"

Felicity nodded so hard that her head spun. "Yeah. Caitlin called me after I left you in the hallway."

"And you didn't go?"

Oliver, as usual, missing the point. He glared at Diggle, as if it was somehow his fault, but the latter lifted his shoulders in a worn-out shrug. "First I'm hearing of it, man." He cracked one eye. "But _mazel tov_. About damn time."

Oliver opened his mouth. "John —"

"Don't start," she said, cutting him off with another fierce hug. "Oliver Queen, you are bleeding out from your side and you _just_ got out of being mind-controlled. I'm going to kill you if you move. Don't you _dare_ start."

Oliver grew quiet again and his chest swelled as he inhaled her scent, pressing his forehead to the curve of her neck. Felicity closed her eyes too, feeling the reassuring press of their hearts beating together. "I'm sorry, Felicity, I'm so — so — sorry."

Felicity shook her head. "Make it up to me later," she said tiredly. "A lot. When I say _a lot_ , I don't mean _a lot later_ , I mean _soon_ — and — _a lot_. Like _wake-the-neighbors a lot_ , until I'm making that noise —"

Diggle made an involuntary sound of disgust beside them, and Oliver laughed, his voice cracking a little as he kissed her full on the mouth.

"I promise," he breathed. "I'll do whatever — _anything_ — you want."

"Oh." Felicity had a thought, because _what the hell_. "Then I get to name the baby."

"You were always going to name the baby," Oliver said, without hesitation.

They both laughed then, contused and exhausted and bleeding and _so_ ready to act pregnant (that last one was Felicity's), but not broken.

Never broken.

"I hate to interrupt," Diggle said, "but Damien has ORACLE, and —"

"—Felicity's off executive command," Oliver finished, looking close to passing out. "We need to…stop him from launching…"

"…or people are going to die." Diggle stretched out a hand to help Oliver to his feet, and despite the fact that she was probably in the best physical condition out of all three of them, they still helped her to stand.

"Yeah," Felicity said, turning to look at the staircase. "About that."

* * *

Oliver's arrow exploded upon impact with the steel, blasting the door (and half of the frame) apart with a hail of creaking metal and burnt _everything_. Felicity was first into the room, her gun raised in front of her to point at Damien, who was just visible behind a clear wall of computer monitors, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows that showed them the first streaks of red across the horizon. There was a fresh cut at the side of his face, made by a grazing bullet, made even redder by the dawn light.

He'd looked around at the explosion, and now stared at Felicity, Oliver, and Diggle like he wished he'd used something along those lines to take care of them.

"Why," he said, "do you three _never_ learn?"

"Believe me, we've been asking ourselves the same question about super-villains like you since day one," Felicity answered, as Oliver and Diggle both took aim.

"Step away from the computer," Oliver said, his arrow pointed at Damien's heart.

"You're too late," Damien said, holding his arms out to his sides. "It's already begun. Your friends never managed to take out the last few drones, and that alone will be _plenty_ to neutralize all of you — once and for all."

Felicity saw that the threat count was almost done scanning, and the cruel mockery in Damien's eyes grew at her realization.

"I'm afraid I can't protect you, Felicity, not anymore," Damien said. "You chose the wrong side — and you lost the game."

"Depends on which side you're standing on," Diggle said.

Damien only smirked.

" _Sentinel Initiative — complete. Confirm?_ "

"Confirm," he said, and somewhere beneath their feet, Felicity knew the drones had been activated for launch.

The ship deck beyond the windows split neatly down the middle, and they all heard the first stirrings of the drones coming to life.

"It doesn't have to be this way," Felicity said, looking right at her father. "You could have made ORACLE…more."

Damien dismissed her with a tilt of his head. "Naive to the end, it seems," he said, and swept his hand across the keyboard. "ORACLE — threat count?"

Damien was still smiling at them when the scan completed, and the system gave its answer.

" _One_ ," said ORACLE.

Damien's face showed the first — purest — instance of surprise she'd ever seen him demonstrate. But Felicity grabbed onto Oliver and Diggle as the air grew sharp with the sound of incoming drones.

"Get down!" she shouted, and yanked them to the ground, just before the hail of bullets smashed through the glass and decimated the control room.

The glass smashed immediately, the monitors destroyed and raining down on them like hail. The three of them were shielded by the concrete dais and the steel platforms the computers were mounted on, but the ground outside their radius soon grew peppered with bullet holes and Felicity felt Oliver pull her even closer, a moment of quiet in the middle of pure chaos.

It seemed like an eternity later before Diggle's hand on her shoulder alerted her to the fact that the barrage was over. Her ears were still ringing from the spitting bullets, and she had to grab onto a dented steel edge to stand, but she did.

Damien was nowhere to be seen — at first.

They found him in the shadow of an overturned console, shoulders rising and falling in rapid breath. The steel and the placement of his fall had shielded his torso from the worst of the bullets, but there were wounds all over his legs — twisted and ugly things now, and more ominously — a large, bleeding hole near the base of his spine.

Felicity stepped forward alone, her hand slipping from Oliver's outstretched one as she walked over to join her father.

At first, she thought that he wouldn't speak to her. But then —

"You…changed ORACLE," he rasped, in a voice like broken glass.

"I changed ORACLE," she said, to his downturned face. "You asked me once: who guarded the guardians? I thought about it — and this was my answer. Even the guardians shouldn't be afraid of justice, especially if they're doing something worth fighting for."

" _Faith_ ," Damien spat the word, managing to make it sound like an insult.

Felicity didn't flinch. This version of her father had even less power over her than the one who stood with a gun to Oliver's head. He was broken, and bitter, and twisted to the core, and she only felt sorry for him.

"I trust people, dad," she said. "I trust in them, and I trust in myself. But that doesn't mean keeping all of us immune from justice. If we fall, we deserve to be treated like everyone else. That's what justice is. I changed ORACLE to recognize that…and it did."

Damien raised his head, and they stared at each other — father and daughter — for what felt like the last time. "Then you're a bigger fool than I thought you were," said her father, and Felicity felt the last fragments of their relationship split cleanly down the middle, slipping through her open fingers.

She was letting it go.

Letting him — the idea, the _dream_ of what her father should have been — go. She didn't need it anymore.

"Goodbye, dad," she said, and picked her way cleanly through the broken glass and smeared blood like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

Oliver wrapped his arm around Felicity's shoulders as they turned away, walking down the steps with Diggle bringing up the rear.

"Are you all right?" Oliver asked.

Felicity slipped her arm around his middle, careful to hold onto the banisters as she helped him down the stairs. "No," she said. "But I'll get better. Not calling it quits is one of my _many_ talents. You?"

Oliver coughed, which she guessed had been meant as a laugh. "I've survived worse."

Felicity kissed his ear, and the rough stubble of his jaw. "Wait until the baby comes," she whispered, and made him laugh again.

"God," Diggle said. "It's only going to get _more_ nauseating, isn't it?"

Felicity winked at him — not caring that her whole face moved as well — and Oliver answered, with conviction: "Absolutely."

"Great." Diggle shook his head in mock-weariness when they reached the bottom of the stairs. As if at some unspoken signal, all three of them turned to look at each other.

"Now what?" Diggle asked.

Felicity took their hands in hers — Oliver and Diggle — her two boys, her two brave, _brave_ men. They still had so much to do. The rebuilding effort would take months, not to mention the healing, much less the _recruiting_ , and the figure-out-how-to-deal-with-everyone-knowing-their-secret-identities schtick.

But then, right then, Felicity knew that there were no two people she would rather begin with. The three of them were a team — and now? Now it was just beginning.

She took a deep breath and lifted her shoulders, a gesture that was easy and light and so very much _her_.

" _Everything_ ," she said, and they all smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THAT IS NOT OVER. REPEAT. NOT OVER. STILL HAPPY STUFF COMING TO MAKE UP FOR ALL THE CRAP I PUT YOU THROUGH. GIVE UP THE STORY AT YOUR OWN EMOTIONAL RISK (same could be said of sticking with the story, but still).
> 
> I know you wanted me to kill Damien, but if you can guess what happens to him, you'll see a little reference to comic book Oracle. Not sure how that makes it better, but to me, death is way too kind to Damien Darhk. Plus, y'know - HIVE.


	79. Cadmus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of a comic-bookish reference here.

The plane was just landing by the time the three of them made it to the north deck, Felicity and Diggle both supporting the stupidly stubborn hero who seemed determined to pretend there wasn't a bleeding hole in his side and god only knew how many other hurts on the rest of him.

Felicity wondered if there was a way to ask Oliver to take off his suit without sounding like a pervert in front of everyone.

Spousal privilege?

Right, as if Oliver needed a reason to take off his clothes. The man was someone predestined by nature to live his life shirtless.

"Almost there," Diggle said, raising his hand to signal the plane. "You're gonna be fine."

"I _am_ fine," Oliver insisted, an assertion that went largely ignored by the two of them.

The engines swept a breath of hot air along the freezing deck as it closed in, and the door was already lowering with a mechanical whine — releasing a thunderous-looking Caitlin Snow onto the ship.

Felicity winced, shrinking underneath Oliver's weight as if she could already feel the Disapproving Doctor Whiplash.

" _Hey_ …Caitlin," she said sheepishly, trying not to sound like Barry whenever he broke something delicate and highly scientific.

But to her (great, very great) surprise, the storm clouds vanished when Caitlin saw her, and she immediately tackled Felicity in a huge hug.

"For future reference, when someone tells you you're pregnant — you do _not_ hang up on them and charge back into a fight," she said fiercely.

Oliver made a sound bordering on indignation at this. "You _what?_ " he said.

Felicity blinked. "I told you — Caitlin called, but I went to find you first."

" _Felicity —_ "

Oliver nearly lost his balance when he tried to take a step towards her, but Diggle caught him with a grunt. "Maybe we should wait until you're sitting down before hashing this out," he suggested.

Caitlin finally got a good look at Oliver, and even though she paled a little, Felicity swore that they'd lost the ability to shock her. "I'm going to need some gauze," she said evenly, and motioned for them to follow her onto the plane.

 _And a tranq dart_ , Felicity thought, and it wasn't until Oliver coughed pointedly did she realize she'd been thinking out loud.

Cisco was waiting for them by the doors, a broad grin on his face. " _Mazel tov_ , you guys — baby in a war zone. Classic. Are we thinking names yet, because I _swear_ Cisco is good for a boy and a girl —"

"— not happening," Oliver said through gritted teeth, reluctantly allowing himself to be lowered into a seat.

At which point Cisco seemed to realize that the stains on Oliver's suit were in fact of the haemoglobin variety. " _Oh-god-that's-so-much-blood,_ " he said in a rush, his arms over his head like he was hailing SOS. "Is he okay?"

"It's nothing," Oliver said immediately.

"It's really not," Diggle corrected, but was instantly distracted when his wife appeared through the doors and took the last few steps at a run. They all but crashed together in a hug, which Diggle powered through in spite of his ribs.

"Johnny," Lyla breathed, her arms around his neck. "You're —"

"— _fine_ ," Diggle finished.

"He's really not," Felicity said, for Oliver's benefit as much as Diggle's.

"Okay, so _no one's_ fine," Cisco concluded, looking like he was expecting a meteor to come crashing onto the ship.

"Well…" Felicity said, just as Caitlin reappeared with a sizable first aid kit and began to pull on her gloves.

"Felicity," she said, gesturing at Oliver's suit, "could you —?"

"Absolutely," Felicity answered, and unzipped Oliver's suit to expose the wound, disregarding his murmured insistence that he was _fine_. "Probably the only kind of first aid I'm qualified to do — taking off your clothes."

Oliver made a strangled noise that sounded like her name. Probably because getting excited in front of company (while wearing tight leather pants) was _not_ the best idea.

"Sorry — I'm sorry!" Felicity waved her hands in a vain attempt to distract him, thinking frantically about the biggest turn-offs in Oliver's book. Spoiler alert: there weren't a whole lot of them, as far as she was concerned. "Can of worms! Placenta! John's bare a—"

"—you guys play some _weird_ word association games," Cisco said, squinting suspiciously at them both.

"John's bare _a—_ is very flattered," Lyla said, looking just as amused as Diggle. "I heard the good news. You're —"

"— _so_ ready to wear baggy sweatpants and have people bring me stuff while I flop around on the couch," Felicity said. "Which is _not_ a dream of mine, just BTW."

"The first time's the worst," Lyla reassured her. "But you're going to love it."

Felicity smiled, and opened her arms for what she sensed was going to be the first in a long string of congratulatory hugs. "I know being pregnant in a war zone's kinda your thing," she said. "But how'd I do?"

Lyla kissed her cheek. "Perfectly," she said, with conviction.

"Here they come," Cisco said, hanging out the rear door and peering across the deck. "I think we're going to need a lot more bandages."

* * *

"You _broke_ your own arm?" Felicity said incredulously, over the string of curses Roy was muttering in response to his arm being forcibly put into a sling by a determined-looking Caitlin.

Thea who was sitting on the ramp of the plane beside Felicity and her brother, shook her head in exasperation. "The moron told me he was trying to dislocate it. Three guesses who gave him _that_ idea."

"Just—" Oliver winced, holding his side "—the theory."

Ray chimed in, looking interested. "You've dislocated your own shoulder?" he said, around his bleeding nose.

Oliver blinked, like it was a given. "Of course."

Barry looked horrified. " _Why?_ " he asked.

"Ow," Oliver said, in response to Felicity applying pressure on the bandaged (but probably still-oozing) hole in his side.

Given the amount of cumulative physical trauma the group had experienced in the last twelve hours, it was probably a good idea that Lyla had landed the plane in the middle of the disarmed ship's north deck, allowing Caitlin the space and time to provide (and in some cases, _enforce_ ) emergency medical treatment.

Thea offered a fresh pad of sterile gauze to Felicity. "You have a _stab wound_ , Ollie," she said. "That's not an _ow_ response."

Diggle was in the middle of being tended to by Lyla, who seemed to be deliberately winding the bandages around his bruised side tightly enough to could give a corset a run for its money. Even so, he seemed very amused by the idea that Oliver could have a normal human response to _anything._ "It's okay to scream, Oliver. Safe space."

"Couldn't even if I wanted to," Oliver answered dryly, in a sandpapery voice that was probably a combination of extreme exhaustion and the early morning chill of being out in the open sea.

Felicity slipped her arm around his shoulders and felt him lean back against her, relaxing into her touch. _I could make him scream_ , she thought to herself — which apparently showed plain as day on her face, because Oliver smiled his knee-melting smile and lifted his head to kiss her softly on the lips, a gesture private enough to raise a few disgusted groans in the vicinity.

Roy — already in a less-than-happy mood at the sling — gave a pointed cough. " _Guys_ ," he said. "There's a hose somewhere on this ship, and I _will_ use it if you two keep up the PDA."

"I think it's cute," Caitlin said, finishing off the last bit of surgical tape. "But _that_ (she indicated Oliver's side) is going to need surgery."

Oliver didn't seem to agree. "No, it won't," he said stubbornly.

Felicity made her truth buzzer noise. "Lie," she said.

Oliver pinched her in a location she didn't want to specify, making her yelp. "It's nothing," he continued.

"It's really not," Diggle said, which earned him a glare from Oliver — but thankfully not a pinch.

"I mean, you're _literally_ covered in blood," Barry added. "Which shouldn't be surprising — since it's you — but still." He paused. "What was my point again?"

"No one knows," Thea reassured him.

Cisco had been watching Nyssa and Sara, the former getting her hand wrapped up for a cut that looked suspiciously like a knife wound.

"Did you _actually_ stop a knife with your bare hands?" Cisco looked like he was about to pass out from sheer elation. "That is — so — _cool_."

" _Anyway_ ," Felicity said, looking around. "Anyone have a bright idea about how to transport a few hundred soldiers back onto dry land?"

Barry glanced at Ray. "Do they have warship steering licenses?"

"Still on the wait-list," Ray answered. "They're very selective."

"That might not be a problem." Lyla was watching the skies. "I think we're about to have company."

Oliver probably would have gotten up to see for himself if Felicity and his sister hadn't held him down. "Who is it?" he asked.

Lyla turned, her expression grim. "Who do you think?"

* * *

"So — uh — who are they?" Cisco asked, watching the many blue-uniformed agents handle the unconscious soldiers onto several unmarked aircraft. "Or is it a _tell-you-and-I-have-to-kill-you-_ type situation, because I still have a lot to live for. The new _Halo_ 's coming out at Christmas."

"They're not ARGUS," Caitlin observed, frowning. "What else is there?"

Felicity exchanged a glance with Oliver. "At this point, it's getting hard to keep track of all the super-secret agencies."

"At least they're leaving us alone," Diggle added, which was true. By some unspoken signal (or possibly command), the agents had left a wide berth around their plane. But Felicity had a funny feeling that the buffer zone didn't extend to letting them take off without resistance.

Nyssa arched an eyebrow at the (thankfully cleaned-off) implant Caitlin had extracted from Oliver's neck. "He exerted control over you?" she said. "And you fought him?"

"I had help," Oliver answered, and it was only when he looked at Felicity — a slight smile on his face — did she realize that they'd both left out a huge-ish piece of news for the rest of the group.

"Oh," she said, catching Oliver's hand with an embarrassed laugh. "Um — there's probably a better way to say this, but…I'm pregnant."

The reaction was almost instantaneous. Felicity barely had time to process the dropped jaws all around before Thea tackled her with enough enthusiasm to nearly knock her flat. "I knew it!" she gasped. "Well, actually — I was off by about a month — but still, that's great news! You're pregnant! A Queen baby!"

Felicity made a face. "Hopefully — I mean, it'd be kinda awkward if it wasn't Oliver's. You know, since I married the guy…"

That got her another pinch from Oliver, and she laughed, letting herself be pulled into his lap. "Wait — why a month?" she asked, blinking curiously at Thea.

Oliver's little sister swapped near-identical smirks with her boyfriend. " _Well_. I figured that as soon as my idiot brother made an honest woman out of you, you guys would get so freaky with each other that it was bound to happen eventually —"

Oliver cut her off with a deliberate cough. "Thank you, Speedy."

"And one Big Belly special for me," Roy muttered, looking positively beatific at the prospect of a free dinner.

"You're glowing, Felicity," Sara said, kissing her on the cheek and patting Oliver on the shoulder. "Congratulations, and just a heads-up — my dad's probably going to build you a bassinet once he finds out. He's been going through a furniture phase…"

"Oh _god_ ," Felicity said, looking just as alarmed as Oliver at the thought of an angry Captain Lance sweating over the confusing instructions to a baby-cradling instrument (good lord, please not let her mother come in with a glass of lemonade and a line straight out of a bad porno…) —

"A _baby_ ," Barry said, his eyes wide. "Wow. A baby."

Roy looked like he wanted to give him a good conk on the head. "Yes, Barry," he said, very sarcastically. "It's what happens when two adults really, _really_ like each other—"

"— and forget the responsible use of birth control —" Thea said under her breath.

"You guys just _never_ do things the normal way, do you?" Ray said, grinning.

Oliver pretended to consider this with Felicity. "We really don't," he said, his palm warm at the base of her spine.

"But we're happy," Felicity added, and it wasn't a question, because both of them knew the answer.

"Please," said a voice no less sarcastic than Roy's. "Don't let me interrupt."

They all turned to find Amanda Waller standing on the deck, smiling her usual enigmatic smile.

Barry — thank god for Barry — pretty much summed up what the rest were thinking. " _And_ the party is officially pooped," he said.

Spoiler alert: it was.

* * *

 

"We should get this framed," Felicity said, running her thumb over the crest and heavy, fancy paper that screamed _official business_. Or in this case — _not going to jail_. She looked up. "Do people frame pardons?"

Diggle shrugged. "Sure — might make a nice addition to your living room wall."

"As promised," Amanda said, wearing an expression that was ostentatiously in the territory of _smug_. "All three of you have been pardoned for acts of vigilantism and will be — alongside your team members — receiving recognition from Starling City for services rendered towards public good."

Oliver hadn't said anything, despite receiving the piece of paper that guaranteed he wouldn't be going to jail for being the Arrow. He only looked at Amanda, and Felicity swore something passed between them, a silent exchange born of mutual history.

Then Oliver inclined his head. "Thank you, Amanda," he said. "You held up your end of the bargain."

The way he left the sentence made it seem like there was more, something Amanda picked up on instantly.

"Of course, by accepting these pardons instead of dismissing the allegations as rumors, you will be admitting that the three of you were — and still are — the team responsible for the Arrow's actions. There will be no going back after this. The whole world will know who you are, what you do — and you'll open yourselves up to the consequences."

"I'm guessing legal woes are going to be the least of our problems," Felicity said, with a trace of weariness.

"Naturally," Amanda said, her eyes flicking towards Thea and Roy — because it wouldn't take a Rhodes Scholar to guess that Oliver Queen's younger sister couldn't have been totally ignorant of the fact that he was using the basement of her nightclub to run operations as the Arrow, or that her boyfriend — currently still an employee at _Verdant_ — had nothing whatsoever to do with the one under the red hood.

Thea lifted her chin. "All that matters is my brother not going to prison."

"And it's not like wearing a mask stopped bad things from happening to the people closest to us," Roy added.

This was a hard-to-refute truth. Oliver had first taken on a secret identity to protect the people closest to him — his mother, his sister, his best friend, and the woman he'd loved at the time. Of those four, two were dead, and the other two had masks of their own.

The only person Felicity had left to protect was her mother, and Donna had been kidnapped along with her — secret identity or not.

_Except —_

Felicity touched her belly, because it wouldn't be _just_ them anymore, not for long. Their children — Diggle's children — everyone else's — they would be in danger because of what their parents did, one way or another. That was possibly the worst, because they were the innocents. They didn't have a say in what their parents did, and she wasn't naïve enough to expect them to be left out of the crossfire.

But was it so hard to believe that they could protect them?

"It's a new world, isn't it?" Felicity said, and she wasn't just thinking to herself.

Oliver's arms tightened around her waist, as if in assent.

"The world as it is," Lyla said, in a calm voice. "Not how we'd like it to be."

"That's how this whole mess started," Diggle agreed. "We can't let that happen again."

"Glad to hear it," Amanda said. "Because you'll be in charge now. Starling City's in your hands, and I'm sure your success has alerted certain individuals that your league might be open to recruitment — if you're still open to the idea."

"Are they people you like?" Diggle asked, point-blank. "Because that might be a deal-breaker."

Amanda actually laughed. "Let's just say that they're individuals with…shared life experiences. Some have had extraordinary things happen to them, some can accomplish extraordinary things. More often than not, they're both. But it's up to you — it's your league, after all."

Felicity didn't miss the change in ownership. Amanda wasn't lording it over them — which was unexpected, since it was her. But before she could question it, Amanda had stepped away, apparently waving them off to return to headquarters.

" _Wait_ ," Felicity called.

Amanda turned, amusement gleaming in her eye. "Miss Smoak? Or should I say, Mrs. Queen?"

Felicity hadn't told the others about her informal bargain with Amanda, the one they'd made in exchange for her being given the authorization to rewrite ORACLE. "You told me there was a plan B," she said warily. "You're not just handing the league off to us — there's something else, isn't there?"

Amanda inclined her head, looking impressed that Felicity had realized it. "I suppose now might be a good time to tell you, given your success," she said, which wasn't ominous — at all. "Had you failed, the government was prepared to use _every_ weapon in its arsenal to prevent Damien Darhk from succeeding, even WMDs that might have leveled a city as large as Starling. Like Mr. Wilson's army, there was too much to lose if you failed."

"But we didn't," Oliver said.

"But you didn't," Amanda nodded. "Damien Darhk has been taken in by the government, and what intelligence he provides — we'll use to counter HIVE operations around the world. It was a smart move, Mrs. Queen, using what Damien wanted against him. You changed the system so that not even the Oracle could be safe from justice, if things went awry. An admirable move. Trusting, I should say…and the exact opposite of what your father would have done."

It may have been Felicity's imagination, but Amanda sounded like she was expressing pride — pride in _her_.

"You'll find that I've reinstated your status as Oracle, and removed myself from executive authorization — as we agreed," Amanda said, cool and calm. "ORACLE is yours. Completely."

Felicity hadn't expected it to be so easy. "Why?" she asked.

"Oversight purposes. Separation of powers — the overseer can't be entwined with the ones she's meant to be watching, and I _will_ be watching you."

"I'm not the only one who found that threatening, right?" Ray said, after a long pause.

"Guarding the guardians," Felicity guessed. Suddenly the nameless agents doing Amanda's work were becoming less and less ambiguous. "You have a backup plan."

Amanda's smile had an edge to it. "Always. _Quis custodiet ipsos custodes —_ you asked me that, Mrs. Queen, and I'm giving you an answer now. If you're to become the guardians, we'll be the ones watching. We won't be Damien Darhk and his method of the pre-emptive strike, but we'll be ready to respond… _if_."

She let the last word hover in the air like a threat.

"If we turn out unexpectedly," Oliver guessed. "You're the one with failsafe."

"Not just me, Mr. Queen. After the — let's say autocratic — trends of having one person in power, I'll be part of a board selected by the National Security Council, tasked with watching the watchers. There are some extraordinary people I'm sure you'll want to recruit, some of which you already know, and _if_ the worst happens — _if_ our faith turns out to be misplaced — and the league goes rogue, the government wants to make sure ordinary citizens won't suffer for it."

"And you're just telling us this," Diggle said, his skepticism evident. "Isn't it your thing — shoot first, ask questions later?"

Amanda laughed. "Just laying out the ground rules, Mr. Diggle. So you won't say you weren't warned, because you were. If — in the distant future — you lose control, if you go rogue, you will be stopped. I'm always conscious of the failsafe."

As though satisfied that she'd said her part, Amanda turned to go. "Best of luck to you all. I have every hope of your success, and I look forward to hearing about the league when you do."

"Does this failsafe have a name?" Oliver asked.

Amanda paused, and turned to look over her shoulder. A breath of cold dawn air swept across the deck, carrying with it the uncertain promise of a future none of them hoped they would ever see. "Cadmus," she said, and was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are fine with the next few chapters being mostly fluff, right?  
> About Cadmus - think of it as me randomly scattering plot confetti in case there's ever a part three to Legacies, but no promises ;)


	80. Always

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pidanka, KarlyBlack: As requested ;)

The door slammed open without warning. "Felicity!"

Felicity jumped about a foot into the air, and barely had time to turn before her mother collided straight into her, holding on tight enough to remind Felicity that she'd been slammed into a steel pipe a few hours before — and probably needed to do something about it.

"Mom — _ow_ —" she said, wincing. The ice pack she'd been given for her cheek was somewhere by their feet, and unfortunately her tightly pinioned arms meant she couldn't dive for it.

"Oh, sweetie — what's wrong? Where does it hurt?" Donna couldn't seem to decide on which part of Felicity to fuss over, her hair (still damp from the hasty shower she'd taken to hose off the blood), the bruises, her aching sides, or…pretty much everywhere else.

Felicity started to reach for the ice pack, but Donna made a tutting sound and guided her towards the empty bed in the recovery room. The sheets crinkled when she sat down, while her mother patted her down from head to knees to ankles, frowning every time Felicity flinched at a forming bruise.

"Why aren't you in bed, sweetie?" she asked, obviously seeing the shadows under her daughter's eyes.

Felicity glanced automatically at the empty bed. "It's not mine," she said, while Donna held the ice to her swollen face. "Oliver's in surgery and I'm…I'm waiting for him to get out."

"Is it serious?" she asked.

It wasn't meant to be a difficult question, but Felicity had to think about it in terms of Oliver's scale of _grievous bodily harm_. A stab wound — oddly — ranked on the middling to low side of the worse things he'd ever had done to him, but still…

"The doctors don't think so," Felicity answered, and Donna sagged a little from relief.

"But you still want to see him," she said understandingly. "Well, is your mom allowed to wait with you?"

Felicity smiled, even though waiting with her mother made her feel like she was back in elementary school again. "Free country," she said, and paused, because it belatedly dawned on her — despite the Starling General-esque medical setup — that they were in headquarters. Underground, secret, headquarters. "Wait — how did you get in here? No one knows where this place is."

Donna fluffed her hair unconcernedly, a classic _Donna Smoak_ gesture. "I flirted with a very nice man until he let me in."

"Mom…" Felicity said warningly.

"Your friend Mr. Diggle called me. Quentin's still at the precinct — you'd think the city being back to normal would give him a day off — but he's coming in later to see Sara and you once everything calms down."

Felicity made a face. _Guilty as charged_. She could only imagine the uproar in Starling, and the number of fruit baskets she owed Lance after everything was done.

" _Swee-tie_ ," Donna said, smoothing down her ruffled hair. "There wouldn't even _be_ a city to calm down if you guys hadn't saved it. Don't go around guilt-tripping yourself for doing the right thing."

Felicity gave a reluctant smile, which faded almost as soon as Donna pried away the ice pack to get a better look at the swelling, which extended all the way from the edge of her jaw to the corner of her eye. She touched her fingertip to Felicity's ear and she flinched — that hurt too.

"You didn't fall," she said, sounding almost like she was talking to herself. "Someone hit you."

Something in Felicity's expression must have tipped her mother off, because Donna's clear blue eyes instantly became dangerous, the flecks of gray in them as sharp as chips of broken glass.

"Where is he?" she said, in the quietest voice Felicity had ever heard her use.

"Mom—"

"Where is he, Felicity?" she demanded. "Where's your father?"

" _Mom_ —"

"Don't lie to me, Felicity — I know he's here. I'm going to find him, and I'm going to make him regret ever laying a hand on my baby girl — how _dare_ he — that _coward_ , that lying, two-faced piece of —"

" _Mom!_ " Felicity had jumped to her feet, startling them both. "Dad's not here. He — he got shot in the fight. The government has him, and once he gets out of the operating room, he's getting a life sentence in a supermax detention facility."

"But your dad's not like the others, Felicity. He's gotten away before, and he'll do it again," Donna said, her frown deepening.

Felicity shook her head, taking Donna's hands in her own. "Not this time. He's not getting away because he can't. He was shot in the back, and the doctors are pretty sure he'll be paralyzed from the waist down. He's done, mom. It's over."

Donna listened to all of this, her expression very still, like she was reading her only daughter's face to see if she believed it too.

Felicity did, and it must have showed, because Donna — very carefully, very gently — leaned forward and wrapped Felicity in a hug, stroking her hair in soothing silence. They stayed like that for what felt like a long time, before Donna inhaled — like she hadn't really been breathing before that moment — and whispered:

"Good."

* * *

It was a long, long conversation with her mother about everything Damien had done, from the moment he'd first smashed through the window at her birthday party with a brainwashed and resurrected Sara Lance, to the final confrontation on a warship in the middle of an ocean, when Felicity had outsmarted him in a game with rules she'd rewritten herself.

Right around the halfway point, Felicity's stomach gave an embarrassing gurgle, so Donna slipped outside for a few minutes and returned with an impossibly large tray of brightly colored jello (product of a little flirty-flirt, Felicity guessed), which they'd split between them, talking all the while.

When Felicity finally reached the end of the story, Donna pressed another cup of med bay jello into her hand — lime green, this time — and leaned forward to press a kiss to her forehead.

"I know the idea of your father walking out always hurt you, but you stood up to him, and you _beat_ him…" Donna shook her head, her thumb stroking Felicity's hurt cheek. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again — but you've been so brave, Felicity, and I couldn't be more proud of you," she whispered.

Felicity didn't want to cry into her jello, but she was getting embarrassingly close to it. "Shouldn't you be grounding me or something?" she laughed, drying her eyes on the corner of the blanket. "Parental disapproval at getting myself into dangerous situations?"

Donna sniffed, jabbing a spoon into her orange cup. "Felicity, when you're a mother, you'll learn that your kids _never_ listen to you when you tell them not to do something. The best you can hope for is that you've drilled enough good sense into them, and you, my baby girl —" She reached over to thumb Felicity's non-swollen cheek, making her laugh "—have always had too much sense for someone your age."

_When you're a mother._

It was actually funny how often Felicity forgot to tell people the news.

"Um, mom?" Felicity said, looking up from her food. "I have something to tell you."

"Hm?" Donna was in the middle of maneuvering the tray of empty cups to a table. "What is it, sweetie?"

"I'm pregnant."

 _Crash_. The tray clanged against the floor, cups spilling every which way, but Donna didn't seem to have noticed. She'd turned, and was staring at Felicity with her hands (and their bright pink nails) over her mouth.

"You're…"

Felicity nodded, smiling so widely it felt like her face was going to burst. "Mm-hm."

"Oh — _Felicity_ — _!_ " For someone wearing improbably high stilettos and a movement-restricting dress, Donna made it across the room in a heartbeat, but this time Felicity was ready for a crushing attack hug, and laughed when her mother pressed kisses all over her face and hair, squealing at the news. "My baby girl! Oh — you and Oliver — I'm so happy for you!"

"You're okay with being a grandma?" Felicity asked, knowing Donna's preference for sky-high heels and non-grandma-ish clothing choices. "Really?"

" _Okay?_ " Donna repeated, laughing. "My grandchildren are going to be beautiful archery computer geniuses! Of _course_ I'm more than okay —"

Felicity held up her finger, if only just to relieve some of the stress on her baby oven (did people really say _baby oven_?) and to make sure her mother had heard her right. "Just grand _kid_ , mom. One, one kid —"

Donna didn't seem to have heard. "I'll pick him up — or her — whatever you have — I'll do the burping and the diapers — I'll babysit so you and Oliver can go have s—"

"— _mom!_ " Felicity had both hands protectively over her belly now, as if to shield her future child from grandma's highly non-PG TMI.

"What?" Donna blinked. "Your baby doesn't even have ears yet, and trust me, once you've missed about a month of sleep because of late-night feedings and diaper changes, you'll be thanking me for getting you alone time with your husband, who by the way, is going to be _so_ popular at PTA meetings. Seriously, if the dads at your preschool looked even _half_ as handsome as Oliver, I'd have —"

Felicity cut her off with a yelp. "I am actually _begging_ you not to finish the end of that sentence."

But Donna had reclined back onto the pillows, using one of them as an armrest, showing no signs of being finished. "You know what," she mused, twirling a blonde curl around her perfectly manicured finger. "When I was pregnant with you, I remember being _constantly_ turned o—"

The rest, suffice it to say, was not pretty. Felicity got through it by hunching over and pretending she didn't exist, and had no idea what the words _libido_ and _no birth control_ meant, especially not in the context of her pregnancy. As far as she and Oliver were concerned, Felicity was content to pretend in front of Donna that their baby had come about through immaculate conception, because the alternative was listening to her mother wax poetic about how bare floorboards were a lot more comfortable than bathroom tiles (goosebumps were a mood killer, apparently), and the varied functionality of pillows during "special couple time".

By the end of it, Felicity was contemplating a plastic spoon as a tool for ritual suicide, and Donna had apparently finished her story about something Felicity chose to believe happened more than twenty years ago — not with anyone she knew, and most _definitely_ not with Captain Lance.

"I think I'm going to be sick," she said, looking at the sink in the corner and wondering how fast she could run for it.

Donna waved a hand. "Oh, no, honey — the blood rushing into your head's a _good_ thing when you're in that position —"

Felicity gagged. " _Mom_ ," she coughed.

But Donna was busy plumping the pillows. She patted the mattress under her legs, rolled a little from side to side, watched all the while with her daughter's very suspicious eyes.

"Oliver's the grumpy type, isn't he? Hates being in hospitals? Morning person — always first out of bed?" she asked innocently.

Felicity squinted at her, not daring to believe they'd finally crossed over into non-gag-worthy territory. "I mean, I wouldn't say he'd _try_ to avoid hospitals for the rest of his life and suture up his own bullet wounds by himself, but —"

"Oh," Donna was nodding, looking satisfied. "You know what you should do? Do it right here on this bed. It'll cheer him up, just like — _that_." She snapped her fingers for emphasis, watched in utter horror by her only daughter.

"I think this is what a stroke feels like," she said, clutching at bed frame for support.

"What? I've always wanted to have hospital sex —"

"—oh good, you've named it —" Felicity muttered.

"—and it'll be a fun story to tell the kids!"

Felicity made a high-pitched noise. "If I wanted them to sue me for emotional distress, but I am unequivocally _not_ telling my children that I had sex with their father in a hospital, and I don't care how soft — or _whatever_ -inducing — the pillows are!"

Donna — as usual — missed the point of Felicity's rant. "Aha, so you and Oliver _are_ going to do it in a hospital!" She clapped her hands, bouncing up and down with a positively gleeful expression on her face. "Oh, I'm so happy for you!"

* * *

Oliver fell through a murky world of drug-induced dreams, jagged shards of glass cutting deep gashes into his hands and boring deep into his skin like a herd of ants. He flinched from phantom gunfire and raised his hands to block the downward swing of unseen swords, finally a long, shrill scream of his name that startled him awake.

The bright fluorescents stung his eyes, like he'd been asleep for a long, long time. Gradually, painstakingly, his surroundings slipped into focus. The four walls were an inoffensive mix of bland colors and dull steel, the absence of windows making it feel more like a medical bay than a sunlit hospital room.

The sheets rustled and dipped, as if a weight had pressed down on the bed, and Oliver turned his head to find Felicity smiling down at him.

" _Hi_ ," she breathed, bending to press a kiss into his knuckles. "How are you?"

Oliver managed a faint smile. "Alive," he said hoarsely, and started to sit up, wincing when his side stung in protest, reminding him that he'd been stabbed.

By himself, to be accurate.

Felicity's hand was already on his shoulder, easing him back onto the pillows. "Take it easy," she said warningly. "Doctor's orders."

Oliver shifted, already restless in spite of the painkillers and the unhealed injury. Part of the reason he felt so discomfited was because he didn't remember how he'd ended up in a bed. The last thing he recalled was Amanda turning away, the word _Cadmus_ , and then a hazy recollection of Felicity shouting his name before his vision went black.

"What happened?" he asked, frowning.

"You passed out after we took off — the words _blood loss_ and _severe_ may have been thrown around there — so we rushed you to the med bay in headquarters for a life-saving operation, courtesy of a team of highly-trained military doctors…" Felicity paused, and snapped her fingers like she'd just remembered. "Oh, and everyone took pictures of you in a hospital bed and your cute little paper bracelet, because let's just face it — Halley's Comet comes around more often than Oliver Queen in the hospital."

Oliver's immediate reaction was to reach over and rip the goddamned bracelet off, but Felicity caught his hands, laughing, and kissed them again — and again — until he was forced to relent from her persuasion.

It wasn't the first time he'd thought it, but Felicity was beautiful. Oliver lay back on his bed and took her in, feeling some of his restlessness slip away the more he looked at her. She'd showered recently; her skin radiated sleepy warmth and smelled of soap, while her hair was a little messy, still damp from the water. She must have rushed back to the room afterwards, and Oliver knew she hadn't slept.

Oliver frowned. "How are you?" he asked.

" _Me?_ " Felicity said incredulously. "I'm not the one with a dime-sized hole in my gut, and quote- _significant cumulative bodily damage_ -unquote. I think the doctors took the opportunity to patch up some of the bullet wounds — which, in all honesty, I'm not complaining about."

Oliver shrugged off the list of his injuries, choosing instead to fix Felicity with an intent stare. "I mean it," he said. "How are you?"

"My mom came by — she's sleeping now — but I told her." Felicity looked torn between embarrassment and laughter. "You would _not_ believe how narrowly I escaped with my sanity."

Oliver knew Felicity's mother well enough to guess that the content wasn't strictly appropriate. "What did she say?" he asked.

Felicity shook her head. "You couldn't pay me enough to repeat it, but suffice it to say that she's _over the moon_ to be a grandma."

Oliver was glad to hear it. "And you?" he asked softly. "How do you feel — about being a mother?"

Felicity blushed, glancing down at her stomach and back at him. "Caitlin said I'm three weeks along," she whispered, as if she couldn't quite believe it herself. "I — _we_ — we're really having a baby."

Oliver's face broke into a wide smile at her words. He'd already known, but there was something euphoric about hearing Felicity say it again, like each time set off its own burst of warmth inside his chest. "A baby," he repeated, and watched her smile too, her hands coming up to cover her face.

"Come here," Oliver said, and Felicity didn't even hesitate. Careful of the tubes and wires surrounding his bed, she climbed onto the mattress and settled into his open arms, curling towards him with her open palm resting gently over his heart, her cheek pillowed on his shoulder.

"Are you scared?" she asked. "Because once this serotonin high wears off I just know I am going to be — _freaking_ — _out_."

Oliver thought about it — he really did. The one thing he'd been sure of — for a long time — was the fact that he wasn't ready to be a father. Not even close. It had been true when Sandra had Connor, and it had been true for a few years after the island.

But with Felicity…

The future had always been on his mind, because more than ever Oliver knew that she was _it_ for him. She wasn't just a woman — but _the_ woman — the only person he'd ever loved so fiercely and so surely, through war and pain and loss…even death. Oliver still remembered standing on the bridge in Moscow with Felicity in his arms, whispering in her ear that he'd dreamed of having children with her, beautiful children with her smile and her breathtaking intelligence, her capacity to love and her unfailing ability to hope.

When it came to her, there were two things Oliver knew without question. The first was that he loved her, unequivocally, with all he had, with no regrets. The second was that — with the league and their identities being exposed to the public — everything was on the brink of changing, but he was ready to face it all, as long as they were together.

Oliver smiled to himself and kissed the tip of her nose and her forehead. Felicity looked surprised. "What was that for?" she asked. "We've basically just replaced our first few years of quiet newlywed bliss with mashed vegetables, dirty diapers and unintelligible screaming."

Oliver's only response was to gather her closer. "Thank you, Felicity," he said. "You're giving me…everything I ever wanted."

Felicity gave him a look, like she couldn't possibly have taken him seriously at that moment. "I don't think you understand just how many diapers we're talking about here," she said, reaching around him to check on the drip beside his bed. "Did Barry mess up your morphine dosage again? I saw him playing with it just now — god, I swear he's like a toddler —"

"— _Felicity_ ," Oliver said, pulling her gently back onto the bed with him. "I don't care. They're our children, and I'll do all of it — I _want_ to do all of it. Because marrying you, starting a family…it's all I've ever wanted. I love you — that's all there is."

Felicity's smile grew, and Oliver knew she was happy when she took his face in her hands, a teasing look in her eye. " _Children?_ " she said, leaning in until their lips were almost touching — but not quite. "Do my ears deceive me, or is Oliver Queen already thinking about baby number two?"

Oliver resisted the urge to groan when she skimmed the line of his jaw with kisses, tickling his throat when she worked her way down his neck.

"Felicity…" he said, conscious of where they were.

" _Oliver_ ," she answered, mimicking his tone in a way that made it plain she didn't share the same concerns. "You promised to make it up to me, remember? Like — _loudly_ , and _a lot_. Those exact words."

Oliver caught her hand before it slipped beneath the blanket. "Get me out of the med bay and I will," he said, completely serious.

Felicity used her free hand to tap the bandage on Oliver's side, and he winced at the responding twinge of pain. "You're adorable," she said, using the momentary distraction to turn back the covers before he could stop her. "But you're also on a lot of morphine and you can't tear your stitches — so hold still."

" _Felicity._ " Oliver wasn't sure whether it was in protest or assent, because it was difficult to think with her bending low over him. "I don't see how — _that_ — counts as me making it up to you."

She shushed him gently. "Don't you trust me?" she asked, watching his face as her hand slipped below his waistband.

"I do —"

"Then relax."

"But —"

" _Relax_." Felicity's hand was on his hip, her hair spilling across his navel. "A promise is a promise, Mr. Queen."

Oliver was out of breath. Well, and truly out of breath. It was a rare thing for him, especially since he could carry out whole conversations while on the salmon ladder, or debate the pros and cons of field strategy while sparring with two separate people.

It wasn't a hard assertion to make that Oliver was rarely ever out of words.

But he was now.

Felicity had him, and she showed no signs of relinquishing the rare reversal of positions between them. Oliver acknowledged that many of his memories with Felicity had her lying on her back, trying not to scratch the headboard or alert the neighbors as to the extent that she was enjoying herself, gasping an increasingly fragmented series of thoughts that crossed from humorous to explicit the longer Oliver's mouth stayed on her body.

Felicity did something with her tongue that forced an expletive between Oliver's teeth, and her whole body shook from the effort of trying not to laugh with him in her mouth. Oliver didn't even care. Dimly, he was aware of the fact that he'd have to get her back for it at some point in the near future, but at that moment, Felicity's warm palms were gliding up his thighs, her nails scraping lightly across his hipbones —

A series of low moans were coming from deep in her throat, and it was impossible for Oliver to think of anything except the way Felicity's touch felt on his skin. His fingers had gone from hauling at the sheets to sliding through her silky hair, and even though he was trying to keep still, his hips were pushing back against her lips with the effort not to thrust.

" _Felicity_ ," Oliver groaned, and as though she could sense his warning, she only picked up the pace, her fingers moving dexterously the whole time, until all thoughts went cleanly out of his head except for her — her — _her_ —

Oliver went still with a shout, and Felicity held him there with her two hands, until the loud throb of his pulse slowly ebbed back to normal and she released him, wiping the slickness from her lips with the back of her hand.

"So," she said, with a smile that was both sly and uniquely disarming. "How do you feel about sickbeds now?"

Oliver's chest still rose and fell rapidly from what they'd just done. He was just starting to regain his words, and he knew exactly what he wanted to convey with them.

"I," he said, slow and deliberate, "am going to get you for that."

Felicity's eyes were alight with good-natured teasing. "Are you?" she said, resting a hand on his bare stomach. "Well, you'll have to get better for _that_ , which means you're not getting out of this bed until the doctors say you're good and ready."

It was truly impossible to imagine not loving Felicity — in every way that she was. Teasing and laughing with him, affectionate, quietly thoughtful, even furious with something he'd said or done…

Oliver wanted all of it, and all of her. Lying in a hospital bed with her at his side, recovering from a battle that had nearly killed them both, Oliver was reminded once again of how immensely blessed he was — to have the undeserved privilege of loving Felicity Queen, to see every side of her and to show her every scar of his, to have someone who knew and loved him, and believed in him.

Always.

For months and years and all the time they could have — that was the promise Oliver made, then. He was going to share her burdens, to carry them as best he could, not just through the pregnancy and the birth, but through the rest of their lives together. Felicity was carrying their child, and he was going to be a father. They hadn't been expecting it to happen so soon, but Oliver didn't care, because he was happy.

Quietly, fiercely, happy.

The moment for facing Starling City without their masks was coming, and like Amanda said, the league meant the start of something different, or something else. It was a strange, uncharted new world, one without masks, one that was possibly more dangerous than anything they had ever seen, but whatever came their way, Oliver knew — as the one constant in their ever-shifting reality — was that he loved her.

Like Diggle had told him on the day he married Felicity Smoak, being with her — loving her — would see him through the storm, and he was right.

And Oliver was willing to spend the rest of his life finding out just how much.

But for now, he brought Felicity down to him for a kiss. "I love you," he whispered. "Whatever happens next."

As always, Felicity knew what he was thinking — and she didn't ask what had brought about the kiss, or the murmured words both of them were already sure of. Instead, she brought his hand down to her belly, and laid it with hers over this new life — still sleeping, dreaming, waiting — but close, so close.

"I love you, Oliver Queen," she said back. "Whatever happens next."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A) I love Donna Smoak. She is so, FREAKING fun to write, I cannot wait to see what she's like as a grandma. Honestly.
> 
> B) Couldn't help myself with the hospital stuff. Sorry~~~
> 
> C) I think the Team will be dealing with the press in the next chapter. Gonna see how that goes.
> 
> D) Tort law is quite possibly the most boring thing I've ever read in my life, and I fell asleep reading it on the plane back to London. And I NEVER sleep on planes. This year is gonna be a breeze (not).
> 
> E) Kind of failed at finishing Legacies before school started up again, and I'll try to keep updating at least once a week. Hopefully my workload doesn't pile up too soon. We'll see how that goes, but please don't give up on the story yet, okay?


	81. Changing Crusade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know how this happened, honestly. But I just realized that Legacies hit 300K - yippee :D

Oliver stirred from a short sleep to the sound of tapping. While the noise would have baffled most people, he knew from experience what it was — and smiled. He opened his eyes and found Felicity lounging in a chair beside his bed, her heels discarded and bare feet propped up at the foot of his mattress, working on her tablet with utter concentration.

There was a half-eaten cup of green jello on the armrest beside her elbow, and a covered tray of food on the table behind her. As he watched, she absentmindedly sucked a smear of jello from her finger, never taking her eyes off the screen.

"You don't have to stay with me, you know," he said, and she looked up with a start.

Felicity smiled and set her tablet down — allowing Oliver a brief glimpse of something that looked like a suit of some kind — before she came over with the tray of food.

"After the truly _filthy_ things I did to you just now, the least I could do is make sure you have some breakfast." She glanced at the time. "Well — _dinner_ , if we're being nitpicky."

Felicity set the tray across his lap and perched on the edge of his bed. Oliver looked at it, but made no move to lift his fork.

"You made this?" he asked, careful to keep his tone casual.

But something in his expression must have tipped Felicity off, because she snorted and lifted the plastic cover off the food. " _Believe_ me, it might have turned out better if I made it myself — and that's saying something," she said, prodding at the indistinct beige mush with his spoon. "I guess even secret high-tech med bays have nasty in-house meals."

Oliver tasted the first bite she fed him and grimaced. "They really do."

Felicity wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin and reached over to her chair for the unfinished (and stolen) cup of jello. "I thought it was my morning sickness, which —" she paused to eat a spoonful "— _spoiler alert_ , should be renamed _all-the-live-long-day_ sickness…but I guess not."

"Is that all you've eaten?" Oliver asked, wondering if it was healthy for a baby to be sustained mostly by food coloring and sugar.

Felicity nodded. "Can't keep anything else down. I've been craving chow mein all day, but to be fair — I had a pre-programmed craving for chow mein pre-baby, so I'm not really sure what that means."

Oliver had a feeling it meant late night takeout orders and store runs — not that he minded. His least favorite thing in the world was enforced inactivity, and lying in a hospital bed was an example of that.

"Not a chance," Felicity said, without looking up from her jello.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking loudly, and the answer is a resounding _no_. I'm not letting my husband out of his sickbed in his delicate condition —"

"— I am _not_ in a delicate —"

"— to wander around in the bowels of Chinatown," she finished. "If anyone's going for takeout, it'll be me."

Oliver wasn't going to let that happen, but he knew better than to tell Felicity what to do, so he conceded in the form of a suggestion that they turn on the news.

The first thing on screen was Captain Lance holding a press conference on the steps of the courthouse — the same courthouse he'd left only hours before, having attended Oliver's wedding.

"Channel 52's really having a field day," Felicity remarked, as they watched Captain Lance thank Starling City's finest and the ordinary citizen for their efforts in holding down the fort. "Massive power failures, citywide shutdown by a rogue terrorist organization — oops for that one — the _Arrow_ and his friends making an appearance in the Glades…"

"You did not fail this city," said Lance in closing, and a wave of applause roared through the speakers.

Felicity glanced at Oliver. "Kinda stole your line there, didn't he?" she pointed out, licking the spoon clean of green jello.

Oliver made a non-committal noise, not taking his eyes off the screen. A part of him was still surprised that city he'd thought as apathetic and jaded could have responded the way it had to Damien Darhk's threats, and to Ra's al Ghul before that. But another part of him was proud — maybe a little relieved — that he'd changed something, even though it had never been about that from the start.

They'd been talking a lot about legacies, and if Oliver could have chosen one thing to leave behind as the Arrow — it would have been _this_. A city capable of standing up for what was right, a city that fought back against the inevitable darkness and shadow, to become something…more.

Something else.

"They came through for Starling," he said, with a smile. "They stood up and protected their home — that's what matters."

Felicity poked Oliver's nose with the spoon, accidentally leaving a smear of green jello on his face. But he didn't care, because her smile told him that she was irrevocably, unashamedly proud.

"You're getting wise in your old age, you know," she said, in mock-seriousness. "One-year-ago-Oliver would have been epically _pissed_ that anyone in Starling was putting themselves in danger to protect their city. Now look at you — totally cool with them stealing your schtick."

"My _schtick_ ," Oliver repeated, trying to find and clean off the smear. "Wasn't aware I had one."

Felicity wiped it off for him, laughing as she did. "I mean, superior archery skills and crime-fighting jujitsu isn't exactly something you break out at parties, but as far as schticks go…it's your _thing_. You'd never be okay just sitting around at home and making your wife pancakes — cinnamon, just BTW — you're always first in line to help, whatever, whenever…and I love you all the more for it."

Felicity didn't seem to have noticed that her hand had stalled, her knuckles brushing his cheek. Oliver reached up and encircled her wrist with his palm, turning it so that he could press a soft kiss into her skin.

A shiver traveled up the length of Felicity's bare arm at his touch, and Oliver met her gaze with a wordless question.

"You should be resting," she said, but neither of them moved apart.

Felicity was sitting at the edge of the mattress, and it was easy — so easy — to lean forward and meet her halfway. Oliver shifted her hair across one shoulder so he could trace the graceful line of her neck and spine with his lips. Her waist swayed into his hands and she sighed, tipping her head back to the ceiling.

"Stay," he said, softly. "I like you in my bed."

Felicity laughed, a low chuckle in her throat. "Mr. Queen," she said, feigning shock, "did you just make a double entendre?"

"Maybe," Oliver replied gamely, starting to inch the zipper of her dress down her back. "Come here and find out."

Felicity made a soft noise when he kissed her between her shoulder blades, her back arching like a cat sunning itself on the sidewalk. Oliver was already imagining the different (and much louder) noises she'd be making before he was even halfway through the many things he had planned — when a knock on the door startled them apart.

" _No_ ," he said, and it came out as a growl.

Felicity's eyes were glassy with distraction, a deep telltale flush in her cheeks and throat. "Oliver, the door —" she began.

"Pretend I'm asleep."

"But the news is on."

"I'm sleeping through the news."

She gave him a look, fumbling for the zipper on her dress. "No one's going to believe that."

Oliver nipped her gently beneath the ear with his teeth, making her gasp. "I don't _care_ ," he said insistently, making it very clear what he _did_ care about.

"I — you —"

Oliver never found out what Felicity was trying to say, because a loud, and mildly exasperated voice cut her off before she could finish. "The food's getting cold out here," Diggle said, "so how about you _both_ put on some clothes, and let us in?"

* * *

To the average stranger, Felicity's mostly-undone zipper and discarded shoes would have been easy to explain.

Probably not — but the average stranger would have been too intimidated by Oliver's unpleasant expression post-interruption to stick around to ask questions

Unfortunately, it was Diggle. And Roy, and Thea — all of whom had plentiful experience with entering at inopportune moments and had thus been desensitized to Oliver's angry-face.

Felicity's, on the other hand, still felt embarrassingly pink. She retreated into a more innocuous pose in the chair beside Oliver's bed as the others entered the room. Thankfully, Roy was either too afraid of Oliver or still a little funky from being drugged up after his broken arm, and had adopted a placid facial expression she associated with uneventful golf games. Thea had her _My Brother Is a Monk_ filter on, and perched on the armrest of Felicity's chair to give her a hug with her characteristic affection.

Diggle, on the other hand, had license to mock — and he did. His smirk told them that he knew exactly what they'd been up to in Oliver's hospital bed, and was _highly_ amused by the low deterrence a recent stab wound (and morning sickness) had created in their usual handsiness.

There was a long — _very_ long — moment of loaded silence, in which everyone avoided everyone's eyes.

Finally —

"Shut up, John," Oliver said, and they all laughed.

"We come bearing gifts of Chinese takeout," Thea said, proffering a large paper bag and a thermos, while Diggle held out the red-and-yellow plastic bags dangling from each arm.

"Oh, _this_ is friendship," Felicity said, inhaling the aroma of Golden Dragon's best chow mein. "How did you guys know?"

Thea passed her the container of noodles and a pair of chopsticks, pouring everyone plastic cups of tea. "Roy was slowly starving to death in his sickbed, and I'm not a terrible girlfriend — so I got him discharged and bought takeout. Easy."

Roy — unbothered by the sling on his arm — jabbed his chopsticks into the sweet and sour pork, emerging with what looked like a sticky orange kebab. He wagged his eyebrows at them, evidently proud of mastering the art of one-handed eating.

Diggle pulled a chair over to the other side of Oliver's bed and held out two containers to him. "Shrimp fried rice or chicken lo mein?" he asked, with a voice that suggested he knew exactly what Oliver was thinking.

Oliver chose the rice with a small smile, his hunger (or aversion to gross hospital food) having won out over his disgruntlement at being interrupted.

"How's the ribs?" he asked, leaning back against the headboard with his food.

Diggle was already tucking into the noodles. "Two cracked," he answered. "But that's not enough to make me eat that hospital mush."

Thea picked up the tray so her brother could eat comfortably. "To be fair," she said, wrinkling her nose at the gunk lying wetly in the bowl, "it probably has some nutritional value."

"As a laxative," Roy muttered, almost done with his makeshift kebab.

Felicity resisted the urge to moan at the steaming chow mein, because that would have been _weird_. She did, however, almost send a piece of carrot flying into Oliver's eye when she waved her chopsticks around. "All is forgiven," she said, around her mouthful. "And for future reference, walk in on us any time you want…as long as you have food."

Oliver cleared his throat, loudly.

" _Fine_ ," Felicity said. "Leave the food by the door, and come back in two minutes."

"Better," Oliver said sarcastically, but didn't stay annoyed for long when she winked at him.

Diggle chuckled, a piece of tofu in his chopsticks. "I'm going to enjoy this," he said, gesturing to the two of them. "Oliver's going to come running to me for advice — makes me feel powerful."

"Give us a nugget of wisdom, Dig," said Felicity. "What's in _Oliver Queen, the Prospective Father_ 's future?"

Diggle leveled his chopsticks at Oliver and said, with the utmost seriousness: " _Never_ argue with her about what color the baby's room should be, and if she asks you to put sour cream and cheese on the green bean casserole — do it. No questions asked."

Oliver only looked amused by the advice. "I'll keep that in mind."

As far as _Hey-We-Survived_ dinners went, this was one of Felicity's favorite. Sure, it was in an underground recovery room and Chinese takeout, but it was with the people who mattered most to her in the world, and Felicity wouldn't have had it any other way.

Especially when she and Roy went for the last egg roll.

"Dibs!" Felicity called, but he snatched it up anyway. "That egg roll is Smoak-Queen property. Hand it over."

Everyone watched them, interested — but not surprised. Food fights over the last bite of takeout were surprisingly common during Foundry dinners, and it was an unspoken rule that anyone not involved had to stay as impartial umpires.

"Yeah, right," Roy scoffed, holding out his sling. "Broken arm."

Ordinarily, Felicity would have conceded that as a win for him. But then it occurred to her. "I'm pregnant!" she said triumphantly.

At once, she knew she'd slapped down the proverbial trump card, because Roy gave an explosive sigh and plopped the egg roll back into its container. " _Fine_ ," he said, thrusting it towards her. "But that baby had better be real, freaking, cute."

Only he didn't say _freaking_.

Felicity settled back into her chair with her hard-fought egg roll. "Oh, I'm going to _like_ the next thirty-seven weeks," she said, and realized mid-bite that everyone was staring at her, a mixture of smiles and amusement on their faces. "What?"

"It's _this_ ," Thea said, looking around the room like she was taking it in for the first time. "I don't know how to explain it, but this — _us_ —"

"—the fighting over the last egg roll," Diggle added, nodding like he understood. "It feels like…"

" _Home_ ," Oliver said, acknowledging the quiet and unobtrusive truth.

The new headquarters was still an unfamiliar, alien place, but it felt a little less so now. Less-than-mature food fights aside, they were acting like they were back in the Foundry again, just the five of them, after a long, _long,_ day of being vigilantes.

 _Scratch that,_ Felicity thought, smiling at her friends and family. _They're heroes._

This was familiar, a comforting déjà vu in the middle of their shifting world. The one thing Felicity wanted of their new headquarters wasn't the training rooms — or the hangar — or even the tech. She wanted it to feel like home, like they were returning to their home base after everything the world threw at them, and in that moment, she swore it did.

And it _would._

From now on.

Felicity reached for her cup of hot tea and raised it in a toast. It wasn't exactly champagne and crystal glasses, but if there was one thing she'd learned from their time together (and the perfect wedding in the middle of a thunderstorm), it was that the whole chandeliers and black tie thing was so — unequivocally — not them. They were _the_ definition of unconventional, and Felicity looked forward to finding out just how much.

"To home," she said.

"Both old and new," Diggle added.

"And the people who matter," Oliver said, at the end.

They smiled and laughed and tapped their cups together ( _carefully_ , because hot tea was still hot, even on a special occasion). Felicity slipped her hand into Oliver's and felt him squeeze back, because neither of them could have imagined it any other way.

* * *

Oliver, Felicity, Diggle, and Thea were all full and relaxed by the time nine P.M. rolled around, while Roy was still powering through the leftovers with the single-minded determination of a young man in possession of the mythical bottomless stomach.

Felicity was dozing with her head on Oliver's arm. He was stroking her hair while the others watched the news — still on its _City of Vigilantes_ cycle — but she stirred from her food coma when Diggle spoke.

"Lance mentioned a press conference," he said, glancing at Oliver. "He thinks it might be a good idea to use it as a kickoff for the _league_."

"Which still needs a name, by the way," Roy said, still munching unconcernedly on his string beans.

"We can't keep referring to it as the _league_ ," Thea agreed, using air quotes for the L- word (the less fun L-word).

"Before that, we should probably decide what we want to say to Starling City," Diggle pointed out. "Any volunteers?"

"Oliver Queen's not exactly good in front of a mic," Oliver said, a statement that required no further elaboration, given the number of times he'd been escorted off-stage inebriated at various functions and events, moments immortalized by the paparazzi on a little something called _YouTube_ (Felicity made a mental note to look into creating some permanent technical glitches for said videos, just in case they ever needed to claim moral high ground in front of their children).

Felicity realized everyone was looking at her, and raised her hands in a _Not It_ kind of way. "Unless we want to be called the _League of Extraordinarily Cringeworthy Innuendos_ , I'm out."

"I think Oliver should do it," Diggle said, unfazed by the lack of enthusiasm. "This whole thing started as your crusade."

"But it's not anymore," Oliver reminded him. "I learned to let other people help me."

" _Yes_ ," Diggle said, apparently satisfied that he was getting the point. "Every time you change, the crusade changes with it, and going forward with the league means that our mission changes too. It's not just about taking down the people failing the city — it's about protecting the people who _don't_ fail it, so it won't end with us."

He looked at Felicity. "Isn't that what you said when we went back into the Glades? Sending a message — so it doesn't end with our crusade, because there'll always be others to take it up. We'll be with you on that stage, but I don't think there's anyone better to represent the new mission than Oliver Queen."

" _Damn_ ," Thea said, which just about summed it up for Felicity.

Oliver's expression remained impassive as he turned from Diggle — the voice of reason — to Felicity — the heart.

 _His_ heart.

"What do you think?" he asked.

Felicity hm-ed quietly, thinking — like he was — about the conversation they'd had on the plane, on the way back to Starling City. He'd told her about the new name he'd chosen to fit the new crusade.

The persona to represent it.

"I think," she said, "that the Hood and the Arrow were about darkness. You were in the shadows, trying to protect the city alone. You became a hero along the way, but starting this league means something more — something else."

Felicity touched his heart, and it was like they were alone together again, giving each other all the reassurance they could of a human heart, and a very human sense of faith.

" _This_ is different now," she said, "because despite your best efforts, you've allowed yourself to hope — for a better tomorrow. You've changed Starling for the better because you've inspired people to stand up — like some crazy guy in a hood, trying to make the world a better place — and fight the good fight. John's right — it doesn't, and it shouldn't end with us, and that kind of crusade isn't something that hides in the darkness. It deserves to be in the light, and the _Green Arrow_ deserves to debut along with it. No more darkness, no more fear. _That's_ our crusade, Oliver, and you represent that journey. So stand up in front of Starling and show them what it means to be part of it."

There was a silence once she'd finished, and Oliver breathed in — breathed in deep — like he had taken strength from the things she said, like he was ready to believe it, with all his heart.

"The crusade should have a name," he said, with a faint smile. "We can't keep calling it the league forever."

Felicity bit her lip. "True," she said, looking around at the others for help. "Cisco's always better with the names."

Roy made a disparaging noise. "The last one I heard was _League of Super People_ — he's had better days."

"Yeah, but what's the point of all this?" Thea asked. "The name should represent what we want to do going forward."

"Ordinary citizens standing up for what's right," Diggle suggested. "Bravery. Fairness."

Felicity had no idea why, but all she could think of was the picture they'd taken, all of them together in the rain, the one they'd all signed before heading into the war. Everyone had been smiling, not knowing what was about to come but having the courage to go forward, the faith — the hope — that they might make a difference.

_Between the scales of bad and good, and all the gray in between._

" _Justice_ ," Felicity said suddenly, and everyone paused.

"Think about it – we started out trying to make a difference, and that's something that'll never change with us, with what we want to do. We won't be able to beat all the bad stuff in the world, but we can fight it. Balance the scales, to make sure everyone lives in a place where there's always good to face the bad."

All eyes were on her now, and Felicity looked right back, a slow smile dawning on her face. "The Justice League," she said, her heart racing at the name, because she could see the future unfolding ahead of them all, this one stability in an ever-changing world. "What do you think?"

When even Roy stopped eating, Felicity knew she'd hit the jackpot. Oliver exchanged smiles with Diggle.

Thea, on the other hand, was grinning. "You just blew Cisco out of the water, Felicity."

"Thank god," Roy added.

"I like it," Diggle agreed.

"The Justice League," Oliver said, like he was saying the words for the first time.

Oliver being — well — _Oliver_ , Felicity expected him to be unsure about it, but when their eyes met — there was none of that. Nothing except faith, and pride, and love.

Always love.

"It's perfect," he said softly.

And just like that — they were the Justice League.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. Got that one out of the way. Justice League, yayyyyy :))))


	82. My Name is Oliver Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to the ending theme to Arrow 3x23 while writing this (the "I'm happy" scene). Super helpful, but also SUPER similar to the ending theme to the Dark Knight Rises. Like really.

"So am I gonna need a panic button for this?" Lance asked, and Oliver could sense the Captain giving him a once-over to check for signs of intoxication or any sign that the impending press conference was about to become a disaster of (as his sister would say) "Ollie Queen" proportions.

Oliver patted the front pocket of his gray suit, as if to reassure both himself and Captain Lance that the handwritten speech was still there. "Sticking to the cards this time," he said, and the Captain smiled.

They were all waiting in the wings — the unfamiliar marble roof of City Hall over their heads, cast into shadow by the curtains that did nothing to hide the deafening buzz of reporters waiting to see the team behind the Arrow's vigilantism.

The mayor said something that raised a round of applause, and Captain Lance sighed, donning his uniform hat. "That's my cue," he said, and gripped Oliver's shoulder, giving it a gentle shake. "Hey — whatever happens out there — remember that your mother would be proud of you."

Oliver smiled for real, and Captain Lance turned to walk up the steps to the stage. A flash of light blinded him when the curtain parted, and the Captain was gone. Oliver had rarely been as nervous as he felt now — not in the slightest on his own wedding day — and he knew why. This was it. They were discarding the masks they'd carried for the last four years, and as the moment came rushing towards them with increasing swiftness, Oliver wasn't sure if he could face it.

The stab wound in his side was three weeks old now, but the more anxious Oliver became, the more he could feel the phantom stirrings of old pain. As if she could sense his nerves, Felicity came up behind him and slipped her arms around his middle, pressing her face between his shoulders. "You'll be fine," she whispered, and Oliver leaned back against her, feeling the incessant hammer of his pulse slow at the reassurance.

Diggle clapped him on the arm. "You can do this — just like we practiced."

Oliver didn't have the heart to tell him and Felicity that practice had never had much of an effect in the prevention of his public speaking fiascos. "Right," he said, without much conviction.

"Don't tell me you need a mask and a hood to give a decent speech," Diggle returned, utterly unconvinced by his outward appearance of calm.

"It's not that," Oliver said, struggling to express the incongruence of everything going on around him. He was dressed as Oliver Queen, son of Robert and Moira Queen, CEO of Queen Incorporated, but in his breast pocket was a speech from the mouth of the Arrow.

The Green Arrow.

"I've never done this before," Oliver said, and it was the simplest, truest statement of what he felt.

Diggle threw a look Felicity's way, one that said _trouble_ , and she answered by slipping around to stand in front of Oliver. She was wearing a green dress today, a shade brighter than the dark Arrow suit he'd always worn, and she looked at him with eyes that were completely steady, wholly trusting.

"Oliver Jonas Queen," she said softly, seriously. "Listen to me. Every speech you've ever made before today was _not_ you. You were speaking as Oliver Queen, CEO — or as Starling City's vigilante — and that's not who you are. You're both of those things now, and more. What you're going to show them today is Oliver Queen. Who he _really_ is. Speak from the heart, because you have — _nothing_ — to hide, not anymore. You're Oliver Queen, the _Green_ Arrow, and I believe in you."

Not for the first time, Oliver was steadied by Felicity's soft-spoken sincerity, the effortless honesty from the heart she wore perpetually on her sleeve, and the unwavering faith that had always brought him back.

This was a whole new world, but she reminded him that they were ready to face it — whatever came next.

John Diggle.

Felicity Smoak.

Oliver Queen.

It had started with the three of them, and now here they were, getting ready to step out and face the world as themselves. More than ever, Oliver saw the roads that had taken them from past to present, the unimaginable shifts that had changed their worlds forever. John had started out as his a simple partner-in-crime, nothing more, and now Oliver couldn't imagine a life without his best friend and brother.

And Felicity…

 _Felicity_.

Felicity Smoak had been the IT girl with the red pen in her hand, the missing third piece neither he nor John ever expected to become so irreversibly important. She had gone from bafflingly disarming to unattainably out of his reach, to his soulmate and the love of his life — Felicity Queen.

Together they represented the two things the old Oliver Queen never thought he could have. Friendship, and love.

And Oliver wouldn't have had anyone else beside him, as he prepared to give the truth its day.

Lance's voice was getting louder, his speech nearing its end. Almost their turn now, and Oliver wanted the two most important people in his journey to being who he was to know — if only just a little — how much they meant to him.

Oliver stretched out a hand to Diggle. "John," he said. "It's been a pleasure."

Diggle took it with a smile. "See you on the other side."

Felicity closed her eyes when Oliver took her face in his hands, drawing her to him so their lips met in the middle. A quiet kiss that encompassed all the unspoken truths each of them already knew in their hearts. When it was over, they smiled at each other.

"Make us proud," Felicity whispered. "I believe in you."

Oliver nodded, and when the curtain moved aside with a flare of white, he knew he was ready.

"Thank you," he said to them both.

It was time for something new.

Something else.

So he stepped out into the light with them at his side.

* * *

The sea of cameras hadn't stopped flashing since Oliver stepped out from behind the curtain, and they showed no signs of slowing, even when he stepped up to take his place in front of the microphone.

Oliver's wedding ring caught the light when he rested it on the edge of the podium, and the camera flashes seemed to double in their intensity, the whispering among the watching reporters rising into a single, unbroken hum.

Behind him, Lance nodded, both in support and in prompting for him to begin. But before Oliver reached for the note cards inside his suit, he turned first to look back at his friends.

Diggle was the very picture of stoic calm, staring unflinchingly back at the blinking cameras. Felicity stood just beside his best friend, a vision of simplicity and elegance in her green dress, but she wasn't looking at the reporters — because she had eyes only for him.

Suddenly, Oliver knew he didn't need the cards, not for this. Because it had suddenly become simple — so simple — to him.

 _Speak from the heart_ , she'd told him, and he was ready to.

Felicity looked surprised, but smiled and nodded her approval when Oliver's hand came away empty, without the speech they'd prepared. Oliver let his hands rest lightly on the podium, the surface in front of him bare and free of a script.

He lifted his head and the clamoring crowd of reporters quieted almost at once. A brave new world, and the two people he wanted most by his side were standing right there with him.

"Hi," he said. "My name is Oliver Queen."

As soon as he spoke the words, it was like a weight had lifted from his shoulders, and Oliver felt freer than he ever had in his entire life — to speak the truth, to tell the story of how his journey had taken him from being the Hood, to becoming the Arrow…to this very spot, speaking to Starling City as Oliver Queen, the Green Arrow.

"You all know the story of what happened on the Queen's Gambit. It went down in the middle of the North China Sea, and I was marooned on the island of Lian Yu for five years. At least — that's the story you've been told."

"It's not the truth," he said bluntly, ignoring the murmur that rose at his words. "The truth, is that after five years in hell, I returned home with only one goal — to save my city. And I did. I became a vigilante — the Hood, the Arrow — someone who helped people, someone who tried to make my city a better place. Along the way I gained a brother, saw people I never would have expected to take up the fight become superheroes…and I fell in love."

Oliver sensed a stir behind him, as if Felicity had reacted to the words neither of them had planned to say. It hadn't been in the original speech, but it rang of the same truth as the declaration of who he was.

And Oliver felt lighter than ever for saying it.

"But I failed you. I caused this city a lot of pain, and I'm sorry for that."

The silence was deafening now.

"There's no excuse for the wrongs I've done, and I promise you that by accepting the pardon offered to me by the state — I am not denying the harm I have caused, and the sins I still have left to atone for. That's why I'm here today — as Oliver Queen, as the Arrow — because the person I was and the persona I created isn't enough anymore. He failed you — all of you — because he tried to go at it alone, and someone once told me that I need to learn to let people help me."

Oliver looked over his shoulder now, sharing a smile with Diggle and Felicity. "This is John Diggle," he said. "And Felicity Queen."

It was a commotion now, behind him, but Oliver disregarded it. "They've been with me from the start, and they're standing here with me now — because Starling City still needs saving, and it will always need saving. But not just by us — by you. Each and every one of you has shown that you are capable of rising up and protecting yourselves, of standing against anything and everything that threatens the people you love and the place you call home. Damien Darhk was just the beginning. There will be more, and they will come — because that's what darkness does, it always tries to dim the light."

Oliver turned back to face the cameras.

"But we won't let it, because there was an idea. What if the people brave enough to stand up, with masks or without, were given a chance to work with other people just like them, people who want to make a difference just as they do? What if saving the city — cities — isn't just something that should be done by a small group of individuals, but by something more?"

Oliver paused, letting his words sink in.

"A league," he said. "Something none of us have ever seen. The three of us stand here today as the first members — of a league of individuals ready to protect any city that asks for it. We're not part of any government, and we're not any different than you. We're just ordinary people, trying to make the differences we can, and protect the things that matter. And we are ready to fight to our last breaths to do it."

"But we know we can't do this alone. Which is why we're extending a hand to anyone who wants to join us. Help will always be needed, and our team will always welcome new members to the fight against the darkness. You know who we are now," Oliver said, with a flicker of amusement that seemed to be shared by the audience. "You know how to find us."

"The last thing I'll say today is _thank you_. Because you've come with us this far, and all we ask is that you come just a little bit further."

Oliver breathed in deep, and felt himself smile. "My name is Oliver Queen, I am the Green Arrow…and we are the Justice League," he said, and the room exploded into unforeseen — _undeserved_ — applause.

But Oliver stepped back to join Diggle and Felicity, slipping his hand into hers just as she slipped her hand into Diggle's. Together, the three of them raised their joined hands, facing Starling City not just as the Green Arrow and his partners, but as the beginning of something else — as the founding members of the Justice League.

* * *

"Damn." Barry shook his head over what had to be his _fifth_ glass of champagne. "The Justice League. That's, like, _way_ better than what I had in mind."

"Speak for yourself," Cisco said, over some kind of orange soda and booze combination that made Felicity's stomach squirm in discomfort.

"I'm almost afraid to ask," Oliver said, and Felicity batted him gently on the arm. It had less of an effect when he was wearing a tux — her hand slipped right off the material — but it was the statement that counted.

"He's just being grumpy," she explained. "Tell us, Cisco. I mean — it's probably not to late to change the name, right?"

"Sure," Diggle said. "We'll just call another press conference and say _oops_."

Roy snickered. His sling was making it hard to enjoy the finger food, so he'd been stealing hors d'oeuvres off Thea's plate since her first trip to the buffet.

Cisco grinned. "The Superhero Fight Club, baby," he said.

Felicity choked into her flute of sparkling cider (she wasn't the only one), and Oliver had to pat her on the back while she coughed the drink out of her airway.

"I think we'll keep the Justice League," Oliver said in translation, which was probably the nicest way he could have responded to Cisco's idea.

Barry and Cisco shrugged at each other in an _oh-well-gave-it-a-shot_ kind of way. Diggle looked around at the crowd. "Nice to know the Green Arrow still has friends," he said, watching the sparkling and generally expensive array of guests at Queen Incorporated's anniversary party.

"Hold the phone," Thea said, "my brother has _friends_?"

Oliver gave her one of his big brother looks that only made Thea laugh harder (and make it easy for Roy to steal her caviar).

"BTW," Ray said. "Any interesting applications yet? Anyone who can talk to fish?"

It was a little strange for them to be talking about vigilante stuff with non-League people just eating and drinking a few feet away, but the whole press conference had kind of eliminated the need for secrecy.

Which made it easier to explain why the group standing around with champagne glasses were basically the same crowd that had been at Felicity's birthday party a few months before.

Caitlin and Ronnie (who looked _very_ nice in a tux) both laughed. "The press conference was three days ago," she said. "Being a superhero kind of takes some mulling over." Her forehead crinkled, and she looked at her fiancé. "I'm guessing."

"Speaking of," Felicity said. "Ronnie — what would you say to working with us idiots for a change? I _promise_ we offer dental."

"We do?" Roy said, and Thea elbowed him.

Ronnie grinned. "Throw in a fireproof training space and I'm in," he answered.

Felicity almost spilled her drink when she tried to fist-pump. Which was cool. Ish. "We have another one," she announced. "Evil plan working perfectly over here."

Everyone laughed, but Barry was the only one who hesitated, squinting at Oliver like he'd spotted something. "Is that lipstick on your neck?"

Oliver blinked. "Hm?"

Sure enough, there was a smear of ruby red lipstick half-covered by the collar of Oliver's tux, the exact shade Thea picked for Felicity to match the green evening gown she'd worn to the party.

"It's not mine," Felicity said immediately — a nonsensical lie her subconscious had engineered to be wholly unbelievable.

To anyone who wasn't a moron.

Thea — who'd obviously recognized the shade — was quietly pretending that the ceiling was of great architectural interest to her, while Barry looked at Felicity like she was gravely insulting his intelligence (which she kind of was). "Felicity," he said, "you're _wearing_ that lipstick right now!"

Felicity laughed nervously, rubbing at Oliver's neck with her fingers to erase the color. "I mean, of course, it's my lipstick — why would Oliver have somebody else's lipstick on his neck?" By the location of the stain (half-obscured by his shirt), it was becoming increasingly obvious that it had already been there by the time Oliver got dressed.

Which had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that they'd both gotten ready at Oliver's vast loft apartment. Or the super-extra-fun-fact that she may or may not have asked for his help with the zipper on her sorta-low-cut dress, a mistake the two of them sorta-not-really regretted.

Oliver just looked innocently oblivious to Felicity's flushed face.

"On that note," Diggle said, looking _highly_ amused, "cheers, everybody."

The customary _Kumbaya_ circle scattered after that, some drifting off to dance (Caitlin and Ronnie, photogenic _and_ graceful), others propelled to the buffet table (Barry, Roy, and Cisco), while Oliver (by extension, Felicity) was pulled into a business conversation by a few of his company's investors.

By the time they managed to duck out of it, Felicity's immediate reaction was to snatch up a napkin and scrub the lipstick from her fingertips. "Okay, that was a little embarrassing," she muttered.

"I didn't notice," Oliver said, slipping an arm around her waist, his body language making it abundantly clear that he'd enjoyed being (for lack of a better word) _jumped_ in his own bedroom.

"Since Barry's usually not the most observant person around, you know this probably means that John and the others were onto us since they got here, right?" Felicity said, as he pulled her closer.

Oliver shrugged. "I don't care."

" _Oliver_."

But Oliver was smiling, and Felicity found herself unable to keep a straight face. His hands were warm on the green silk bodice of her dress, and she wound her arms around his neck to kiss him.

"May-be," she conceded, a little breathless, "it was worth redoing my makeup."

Oliver laughed and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, navigating their way through the party guests with ease. The shindig was being held on the top floor of the QI office building, and thus had a _fantastic_ view of Starling through the tall windows.

Being six weeks pregnant was still sucky terms of the morning sickness, but Felicity swore her bras were starting to run tight, and she'd taken advantage of the fact by wearing an evening gown cut almost to the lowest point of her breastbone, and nipped in at the waist to celebrate (quietly) the fact that she'd still have her figure for about four to six more weeks. Thea said it was _Grecian,_ and Felicity — after some consideration — asked for extra boob tape.

Felicity was starting to think that it wasn't her imagination — Oliver finding excuses to touch her more often than usual. Waist was normal, but her hips, the small of her back (he'd gone even lower at one point), and her bared shoulders (he said he was checking the clasp on the Dearden necklace) — were all unusual places for Oliver to touch while they were in public.

By the end of it, Felicity was both mildly exasperated and more than a little flattered. Flattered because the dress was working (in spades), but exasperated because ever since they'd found out she was pregnant, Oliver had been careful — annoyingly careful — of her morning sickness and general hormone-ness, and had hence adopted a policy of not coming where he wasn't wanted (so to speak). Which meant that Felicity was the one constantly doing the overt hinting, and as fun as it was to watch Oliver squirm — it was starting to make her feel like a lust-crazed pervert.

"Oliver," she said, using her most sultry voice. "Do you want to take me to a dark corner and get more lipstick on your neck?"

Sure, her bombshell huskiness came out mostly scratchy, but who was judging? Definitely not Oliver, because Felicity _swore_ he looked like Christmas had come early.

"God yes," he said, and she leaned into him with a laugh, parting her lips for a kiss that wasn't _strictly_ workplace decent.

But who gave a frack, really?

"Lead the way," she murmured, against his mouth.

Oliver had a surprisingly clear head when it came to maneuvering the crowd, despite the fact that half his attention was in the vicinity of her neckline. Felicity followed him through the people, and she knew the route well enough to realize that he was leading her into his own office.

"Didn't I leave my underwear in your drawer after the Christmas party?" she asked.

"That was your shoe," Oliver corrected, with his uncanny memory for the details. "Underwear was the Fourth of July."

Felicity coughed guiltily, because if her memory served — the color had been in _no_ way patriotic.

Oliver was already kissing Felicity's neck by the time they'd reached the door, and she could feel him looking for the zipper on her dress by the time the door shut and left them in shadow.

"I don't mean to interrupt," said a voice.

A weight dropped into Felicity's stomach, and she had just turned her head when Oliver put her behind him, every muscle in his body radiating wariness. She had rarely seen Oliver surprised — usually he was the one doing the surprise appearances — which didn't necessarily bode well for the stranger doing the sneaking.

He was sitting in Oliver's leather chair, turned to face the glittering lights of the city below. Felicity had heard the voice before — but she couldn't _quite_ place it.

"Who are you?" Oliver asked.

"Mrs. Queen and I have met," he said, sounding faintly amused now. "I admire your work in Palmer Technologies."

Mentioning Palmer Tech was what made the pieces click into place. Felicity knew the voice, serious and collected, as impenetrable as a veneer of dark glass. They'd met at a business meeting between their companies, where Felicity had shaken the hand of Wayne Enterprises' CEO, Gotham City's version of Oliver Queen as far as his tabloid status was concerned.

"I think we have," she agreed. "What brings you to my husband's office, Mr. Wayne?"

Oliver looked around at the name, his eyebrows raised. The not-so-stranger rose from the chair as a tall shadow and made his way around Oliver's desk, and it was only after he stepped into the dim light pooling in from the windows did Felicity see that she'd guessed right.

Bruce Wayne was a young man, no older than Oliver was, as dark as the latter was fair, with the kind of charismatic grace and solemn good looks that made it easy to imagine why he was so popular with the headlines.

"Nice to see you again, Mrs. Queen," he said, his posture straight and sure. "I have a proposal to discuss with you and your husband."

"And it couldn't wait," Oliver said bluntly.

Amusement darted across Wayne's face. "Not this one," he said, and proceeded to utter the phrase Felicity had _never_ expected to hear from him.

"It's about the Justice League," Wayne continued, looking between the two of them. "I heard you're looking for new members."

Felicity made a noise in her throat, a cross between a laugh and _no fracking way_ , because what were the odds that a _third_ billionaire she'd come across also happened to have a secret habit of fighting crime?

Not so astronomical, apparently.

Oliver recovered from the surprise first, and extended his hand. "Mr. Wayne," he said calmly. "I believe we have a lot to talk about."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Borrowed a big chunk of the lines from Stephen Amell's Green Arrow intro from SDCC 2015. If you haven't seen it already, it's awesome, and I get chills every time I watch it. Green Arrow FTW.
> 
> 2) BEFORE YOU FREAK OUT ABOUT BRUCE WAYNE, there's going to be a time jump (probably) in the next chapter. AKA, end of this scene, cut to black, etc. And if he's going to be a semi-important character, it'll be in part 3, which I'm still brainstorming ideas for. Treat this as a fun Easter egg, since all they're doing is discussing new members for the Justice League. No guarantee he'll join up ;)  
> Does this make me a troll? Don't answer that.
> 
> Until the next update. Cheers :D


	83. To Be a Symbol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLD ON. ONLY TWO WEEKS UNTIL ARROW'S BACK? I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS.
> 
> I guess obsessively writing fanfic over the hiatus helped. eh?
> 
> I don't even know how this happened, honestly. One minute I'm saying Bruce Wayne isn't going to be in the next chapter, and BOOM, he's in the next chapter. Thank you brain! (sarcasm) I think it's trolling me. Send help.

Felicity folded her arms across her chest, which in theory was supposed to make her look intimidating (or Oracle-y), but in reality it was more to hide the goosebumps rising along her bare skin than anything else.

They'd all shifted places. Felicity was in Oliver's tall-backed chair while he leaned on the window ledge behind her, Wayne standing unconcernedly by the shelves at the side of the room, as if brutally blunt conversations about secret identities carried out in mostly-darkness were a regular occurrence to him.

Which — if the reports from Gotham City were to believed — shouldn't have been too unexpected, as far as the darkness went.

"I'm guessing that the Wayne Tech. prototypes in our headquarters weren't a coincidence," Felicity said, trying not to sound accusatory. "You knew Amanda Waller had them."

Wayne inclined his head. "Amanda and I have a…history," he said. "Something I understand you share, Mr. Queen. The Amazo, was it? Then Hong Kong and Moscow?"

Oliver's face betrayed nothing, and only Felicity — who knew his tells — could sense the silent chafing of his fingertips that showed his hidden agitation.

But Wayne didn't seem to be fooled.

"I do my best work in the dark," he said, the crisp veneer parting briefly to show the amusement lurking beneath the surface.

Maybe Felicity was protecting Oliver. Maybe she didn't like to lose. But two could play at that game. "Ten years ago — you disappeared," she said suddenly. "You planted a false trail about being in Europe, but I tracked you to Western Tibet. The place you were last seen — wasn't very touristy, was it? Just a mountain range, a village, and some ghost stories about an old temple."

Felicity paused, letting her words bite. "Learned any new tricks there?"

Wayne seemed to have retreated further into the shadow, so that all she could see was his silhouette. It didn't stop her from hearing his low hum of appreciation.

"Keeping tabs on me?" he said. "Careful — your husband might take it the wrong way."

Felicity almost didn't want to warn Wayne what a bad idea it was to poke fun at anything remotely related to her relationship with Oliver.

Who ignored it anyway. "Ra's al Ghul never mentioned Gotham City," Oliver said, leaning forward.

"Ra's and I had an arrangement," Wayne said, with a shrug. "He didn't interfere in my home, and I didn't interfere with his."

Felicity didn't miss the casual use of Ra's' first name, and the implication that Wayne had been taught by the Demon himself, not unlike Oliver. But _unlike_ Oliver, Bruce Wayne had somehow convinced Ra's to take a (metaphorical) hike, instead making a soul-sucking job offer that was _not_ open to be refused, and leveling his city because of it.

"You know a lot about me, Mrs. Queen — seeing as I'm only a business partner," Wayne remarked.

"I researched you before our meeting over the mining deal," Felicity said. "Didn't think it was polite to comment on your suspicious disappearance. I just thought you went to Tibet to learn some yoga."

Wayne chuckled. "I can see why Amanda speaks so highly of the Oracle. She's not easily impressed — neither am I — but I'm sure you'll be able to do much more with ORACLE at your fingertips, Mrs. Queen. Congratulations on stopping Damien Darhk, by the way. The family resemblance is rather…marked."

Felicity touched Oliver's knee to stop him from stepping forward. "What do you want?" she asked. "If this is a membership application, I'm not sure you understand how amiable interpersonal interaction works."

"Oh, I'm not here to join the Justice League," Wayne said laconically. "I'm here as a friendly face, and to give you a little advice."

"Concerning?" Oliver asked, his voice just bordering on dangerous.

Wayne tilted his head to the side. "Why do you think I wear a mask, Mr. Queen?"

"Deep-seated emotional issues?" Felicity muttered.

Wayne acted like he hadn't heard. "Someone once told me that man is weak. Man can be pushed down from a pedestal and picked to pieces by the crows. Man can have their reputations destroyed and everything they've worked for tarnished, and to outlast the darkness — to _create_ something that endures — is to become something more. A symbol."

"But what you've created stands for fear," Oliver said.

"Didn't the Hood do the same?" Wayne returned. "Except I have a rule about killing that I don't like to break."

Oliver didn't answer, but judging by the expression on his face, Felicity wasn't sure he and Wayne were destined to become close friends.

"There's another way, Mr. Wayne," she said. "There's always another way."

"Not with Gotham. Not with the men trying to bring it down. Human nature makes us respond in predictable ways when we're threatened, and suffice it to say that the Bat makes Gotham's underbelly very, very afraid."

Wayne seemed to read what Felicity was thinking straight off her face. "You haven't seen _corrupt_ until you've set foot in the Gotham City Police Department — but that's not why I'm here. I won't deny that revealing your identity to the world was a bold move, Mr. Queen. But you've also given your crusade an Achilles heel — _you_. If your enemies want to destroy everything you've worked for, they don't have to dismantle it, brick by brick. All they have to do is attack you — your wife — your children — your family — everything you hold dear, and the vultures will do the rest."

"Peachy," Felicity said. "Did you miss the part where we were outed by my super-villain dad?"

"Mr. Queen was arrested four years ago on suspicion of being the Hood, which you easily got out of. Clearly it would have been possible to fabricate a story," Wayne said bluntly. "I certainly do enough of it — seeing as I prefer to keep Bruce Wayne's exploits confined strictly to Page Six."

"I've tried that, Mr. Wayne," Oliver said. "Now I'm trying something else."

The two men stared at each other, surprisingly similar in their starting approach to what was best for their city, but radically different in their opinions going forward.

"Then I'm sorry to have interrupted your night," Wayne said, and already Felicity sensed a subtle shift in tone. He was changing gears — from Bruce Wayne, vigilante, to Bruce Wayne, CEO. "My sincerest apologies, and congratulations on your success with Queen Incorporated. I look forward to doing business with you."

Wayne seemed to leave the implications of _business_ up in the air — legitimate, or for other less…overt purposes.

"I see," Oliver said, and they shook hands amiably enough, even though every muscle in his body radiated caution. Felicity kept her hand on Oliver's back, as much a reassurance as it was a reminder to keep his cool.

"A word of advice," Wayne said calmly. "If you do go forward with the Justice League — don't expect all your recruits to be as confident in their public faces as you are."

"Then why did you come here?" Oliver asked bluntly.

In lieu of answering the question, Wayne bent and kissed Felicity lightly on the cheek — in the charming, impeccable way of someone who'd been taught good old-fashioned manners from birth. Ever the gentleman, and with his looks, it wasn't hard to imagine why Bruce Wayne regularly topped the list of America's most eligible bachelors.

As surprised as Felicity was (because being kissed politely on the cheek by near-strangers wasn't something she'd ever get used to), she wasn't disarmed by it, and pulled away to give Wayne an appraising look. "Because he trusts us," she guessed.

Wayne was as close to unreadable as it got, but something in his smile made her think she'd hit the nail on the head. "I don't trust anyone, Mrs. Queen," he said, an enigmatic statement made in the most matter-of-fact of ways. "But I do admire good work, and what you've done in Starling City _is_ something to be proud of."

"Enough to make you consider joining up?" Felicity suggested.

She could have sworn Wayne winked at her, but deliberately failed to answer the question. "I'm always open in a consulting capacity," he said, stepping towards the door. "By the way —"

They both looked at him.

"— congratulations on the baby. You're going to make wonderful parents," he said.

Felicity was hard-pressed to conceal her shock — because she was pretty sure only Caitlin had the results of her blood test, through about six feet of encrypted database controls in the lab at HQ.

Oliver knew this, and looked like he accepted the good wishes — mostly. "We'll try not to tell anyone about your nocturnal habits, Mr. Wayne," he said, as if it was a promise to set up a golfing weekend sometime.

Wayne's back was already turned, walking towards the party with his hands nonchalantly in his pockets, like he'd just taken an innocent stroll around the office. "No one would believe you if you did," he said smoothly, letting the door close behind him.

In the silence that followed, Felicity decided to say what they were both thinking. "What the _hell_ was that?"

* * *

Suffice it to say that having yet another public-billionaire-slash-secret-crime-fighter show up on their doorstep was enough to put a kibosh on the whole making-out-at-the-office-party schtick (basically just their regular party behavior), in favor of telling the rest of the group what just happened.

Obviously — shock. Not just because the two of them had disappeared off to a dark corner and _not_ done anything remotely non-PG, but because Bruce Wayne was _not_ on the list of people most likely to be vigilantes (except Cisco's, for some reason). Which — Felicity supposed — was kind of the point.

Felicity's back was killing her. She'd taken off the offending high heels, and was standing barefoot in front of the vanity at Oliver's apartment, slowly removing her glittering party costume. She let an earring drop onto the table, but paused with the other between her fingers, absently twirling the teardrop emerald so it caught the light.

"Did Ray seem hurt that another billionaire joined the ranks of crime-fighter?" she asked, more of a humorous out-loud wondering than anything based on actual observation.

Oliver draped his tuxedo jacket across the arm of a chair, and his expression was thoughtful as he leaned on the wall to Felicity's right, his hands in his pockets. Ordinarily, the sight of Oliver in suspenders would have been enough to send her into spirals of hopeless distraction, but tonight they both had other things to think about.

"Hey," she said. "You okay?"

Oliver blinked, like he'd just realized she was watching him. "Mm," he said, which wasn't really an answer. "Just… surprised."

Felicity tugged gently on his arm to bring him closer, and Oliver pushed off the wall to join her in front of the mirror. She removed his bow tie and left it over the handle of a drawer, and after a moment of consideration, Oliver reached behind her neck to undo the recently-mended clasp of the Dearden necklace he'd given her.

"We should think about getting a place soon," Oliver said, laying the chain of priceless green diamonds on the table. "We can't stay here when the baby comes."

Felicity had moved on to his shirt studs, standing on her toes to see what she was doing. "It's big enough," she said, because her apartment was resolutely poky and firmly out of the running as a post-baby living space.

Oliver shrugged. "I always thought we'd live in a house, once—"

"—the children came," Felicity finished for him, and teasingly wrinkled her nose. "You're really not making it easy on me and my uterus, are you?"

It worked, and Oliver smiled. "Just being prepared for the eventuality," he murmured, leaning his forehead against hers.

Felicity nudged back, giving him a quick kiss on the nose before she continued to unfasten his shirt studs. Those she dropped _plink-plink_ onto the table beside her earrings, joining the hairpins Oliver was in the process of retrieving from her evening hairstyle.

The pins whispered as Oliver's gentle touch slid them from her hair, and it wasn't long before the previously upswept curls were falling around her shoulders in loose perfume-scented waves, and she was faced with Oliver's open shirt and a broad strip of his bare chest. Felicity was suddenly aware that Oliver's hands were on her hips, warming her skin through the silk as they glided around to find the zipper on her dress, pulling her closer all the while. Their foreheads pressed together with something resembling urgency, and Felicity pushed her palms across Oliver's perpetually-hot skin, dragging them down from shoulder to waist.

"I'll — um — talk to an — ah — agent," she breathed, her focus split between touching Oliver and Oliver touching _her_. "T…tomorrow."

Oliver made a noise she took to mean agreement. As she always did, Felicity grew quiet when her palm reached the fresh scar in Oliver's side, a uneven pink line where the arrowhead had repeatedly torn flesh and muscle.

Oliver evidently could guess what she was thinking, because he pulled on her arms to bring her flush against him, the both of them swaying slightly at the closeness of it.

"I'm okay," he insisted, and she shuddered at the light nip of his teeth on her bared neck. "I'm okay, Felicity."

Felicity bit her lip, her head tilted back to the ceiling. "About this house," she said, most of her attention on the way Oliver's knuckles were tracing a burning line down the exposed ridges of her spine, "do you — um — want anything? Break…breakfast bar? Fireplace?"

Oliver was shaking his head. "You," he murmured, his breath hot on her throat. "Just you."

There were many things Felicity wanted to say to that, mostly in the vein of witty remarks and teasing rejoinders, but the words all seemed to fall away when she looked into Oliver's face — for all its quiet intensity — and suddenly it seemed like there was only one thing left to do.

Felicity lifted her head just as Oliver bent his, and they met in the middle with a rush of _rightness_ that nearly took her breath away. She swayed from the eagerness of his response, and would have stumbled if it weren't for his hands — braced in the curve of her back — hands strong enough to carry her if he wanted to.

 _She_ wanted him to.

Felicity wrapped her arms around Oliver's neck, and the folds of her dress rustled when he lifted her clean off her feet, carrying her towards the bed. Her knees sank into the mattress on either side of Oliver's lap, the shoulders of her dress sliding low to her elbows while Oliver inched the hem up past her thighs. Felicity pushed the suspenders down his arms and dragged the shirt from his waistband, parting the folds to run her nails lightly across his bared chest.

The rough beading on the dress made Felicity gasp a little when it chafed at her breasts, but Oliver peeled it carefully from her waist and hips, until it slithered rapidly from the bed in a whisper of silk, leaving him to claim the skin it left bare.

And he did, his warm palms tracing the curves of her body from hip to shoulder, until Felicity made a sound of need against his neck, rocking forward on her knees to push him down onto the mattress.

In ordinary circumstances, Felicity would have taken her time to relish the look of mingled surprise and appreciation in Oliver's eyes, but she'd already been interrupted once by an unexpected visitor, and the _last_ thing she felt like doing was more waiting.

Felicity's hair spilled past her cheeks in a thick, tumbled curtain when she bent to kiss her husband.

They were alone, and the world could damned well wait.

* * *

Felicity slipped her finger through one of the straps on her discarded dress. It gleamed faintly in the low light, lying in a heap on the rug by the bed — exactly where Oliver had left it after he'd peeled it off her body.

"Funny how my clothes always seem to end up on the ground," she observed idly, before turning her attention back to the tablet in front of her. "A few thousand dollars — and you're letting it double as a rug."

Oliver's stubble rubbed against her shoulder as he tracked kisses from her neck to the small of her back. "Worth it," he said, and Felicity laughed into her hand, a low, enticing sound that only made him want her more.

The dress _was_ beautiful, but Oliver infinitely preferred the expanse of warm skin underneath. Felicity had always been satiny-smooth to the touch, her skin so fine that the slightest blush showed as a bloom of rosy pink against ivory paleness. But now that she was carrying a baby, her skin seemed to radiate a constant pearly warmth, an exotic and alluring combination that made it nearly impossible for him not to touch her.

Felicity was stretched out on her stomach, drowsy with contentment but fighting off sleep as she read on her tablet, a habit Oliver knew better than to interrupt — though it didn't stop him from focusing all his attentions on gently reminding her that there were other options.

"Are you cold?" he asked.

Felicity shook her head, but Oliver still pulled the rumpled duvet up to cover their bodies, knowing her perpetually inadequate levels of body heat.

"Good news — the _Starling Tattler_ squeezed in a paragraph about your speech at City Hall," Felicity said, scrolling down the article on her screen. "The other ten are about my quote- _submissive_ -unquote wardrobe choices — like wearing green's a crime."

Oliver snorted briefly in the act of lifting Felicity's hair so that he could kiss her bare neck. "I don't think anyone who's ever met you can get away with calling you _submissive_."

Felicity turned over her shoulder to give him a look. "Glad you think so," she said with mock-severity. "Because if you _ever_ ask me to get you a cup of coffee, I'm using Drano as a sugar substitute."

This was not a new topic of conversation. Oliver rested his head on his hand, tracing patterns in her bare hip and recalling in minute detail the time Felicity had informed him — in no uncertain terms — how she was going to deal with not being allowed to have one of her favorite things because of the pregnancy.

Caffeine — he distinctly remembered — would earn him a trip to the emergency room with stubborn gut pains. "I thought a coffee request gets me a laxative," he pointed out, his tone reasonable.

"It _did_ ," Felicity agreed, moving on to the _Daily Star._ "But quitting cold turkey absolutely and unequivocally sucks, so I've upped the insensitivity factor. Coffee gets Drano, red wine gets disembowelment, and don't even get me _started_ on sushi."

"Is that all," Oliver said dryly, and made Felicity giggle by tickling her cheek with a scratchy kiss.

"Again, with the wedding rings." She shook her head in exasperation at whatever she was reading. "Oliver Queen outs himself as a superhero on _live television_ , and all the papers care about is whether he married the Vegas gold-digger."

Oliver went still. "It does _not_ say that."

Felicity made a face and flipped the page. "Not in so many words, but there's a lot of commenting about _the illustrious Queen heritage_ and my _alternative family background_ — or lack thereof. I mean, the heated discussion of your leather pants in the _Tattler_ , I get. I've seen your ass and I wouldn't go so far to say that it was _born_ to wear green leather, but —"

Oliver had heard enough, and Felicity yelped in surprise when he flipped her suddenly onto her back, pressing her into the mattress with his hands on either side of her head. Felicity was still clutching her computer, and stared at him with eyes innocently wide in bewilderment.

Oliver despised tabloids. He'd never liked them to begin with, and his feelings had extended at most to tolerance, because the ridiculous stories were a useful way to maintain the public facade of being the incompetent heir to the Queen family, instead of the hooded vigilante racing across rooftops and taking down the worst Starling City had to offer.

But he'd never liked their insistent dismissal of Felicity as nothing more than the daughter of a Las Vegas cocktail waitress, like she hadn't graduated early from one of the top schools in the world and gone from IT girl to running a multi-billion-dollar tech company to extraordinary results. Because conveniently leaving out her intelligence and stressing her family background made for the better — _fabricated_ — scandal.

Oliver being purely terrible at lying, all of this probably showed on his face, which was why Felicity looked taken aback by the intensity in his expression.

"Oliver," she said, "I don't care about the trashy magazines — even if they _do_ comment gratuitously on the curvature of my husband's ass."

It was a comment meant to make him smile, but Oliver wanted her to know that it wasn't a laughing matter, not to him. "I do," he insisted. "You're my wife, and I _hate_ the way they talk about you, like you're —"

"—some ambitious IT girl who slept her way into being the CEO's executive assistant?" Felicity volunteered, tipping her head to the side. "I've heard worse, Oliver, and I don't care — because I know who I am, and what I can do. Have I ever been tempted to hack into their systems and crash their server for a month? Probably. But they're not worth it. I've survived crazy psycho assassins, super-serum soldiers and mind control implants — a few paparazzi reporters accusing me of ruining the Queen family name isn't going to ruin my day."

Oliver stroked her chin with his fingertips, once again finding himself in awe of the intelligent, brave, and beautiful woman he'd had the good fortune to marry. There truly didn't seem to be anything that could faze Felicity in the slightest, and the knowledge made him want very much to kiss her again.

Instead, he made a thoughtful sound. "What if I told you that the real Queen family tradition was marrying for love?" he asked.

Felicity bit her lip. "I wouldn't believe you," she said, visibly fighting to suppress a laugh.

Oliver tilted her face up to his. " _Mrs. Queen_ ," he breathed, and Felicity's lips curved in a smile.

"Yes?" she answered, their mouths almost — almost — about to meet.

Oliver's smile instantly became teasing, and before she could say another word, he tugged the tablet out of her slack grip, tossing it far — _far_ — across the bed.

" _Oliver!_ " Felicity said, her lips parted in surprise.

"No more reading," he said, and bent to kiss her — just one of the many things he had planned to make her forget anything and everything the tabloids ever wrote about Felicity Queen.

* * *

But Felicity would always be incorrigibly _Smoak_ , and nothing short of the total loss of her physical speech capabilities would stop her from talking, not even being kissed enthusiastically by her husband. "Am I — _mmf_ — allowed to — _mmf_ — talk?" she asked, between feverish, laughing kisses.

With his mouth preoccupied with other things, Oliver made a noise that resembled assent and Felicity sighed — sleepily, lazily — sinking deeper into the pillows under her head while Oliver kissed her.

The skylight above their heads was a stretch of midnight darkness, the sounds of Starling City echoing faintly from the street far, far below the penthouse apartment. Oliver's lips were behind her ear, his breath in her hair, steadily making his way down to the hollow of her throat. Felicity ran her hands along his naked shoulders while he explored, her ring catching the light when she trailed her fingers through his short hair, down the small bumps at the back of his neck, past the pinkish half-healed stab wound in his side, and the graceful, lithe curve of his spine, then lower still —

"The tabloids are _never_ seeing this," Felicity muttered, and Oliver laughed against her naked skin, sending the most delicious shivers through their bodies.

But she winced when his stubble rubbed against her breasts — which had been tender and all-around untouchable due to pre-baby soreness — something Oliver noticed instantly. "Sorry," he said, shifting his weight onto his elbows. "Should we st—"

" _No_ ," Felicity said, hastily enough to make her blush. "I mean, it's just sore up there. Totally normal. We can find, um, ways around that. Like — um —"

_Your mouth. On me. Further south._

Oliver really wasn't making things easy on her at all. "Like?" he prompted, showing every sign that he knew what she meant.

If _he_ wanted to play, Felicity could humor him. In spades. "Sometimes," she said, her nails scratching lightly down her stomach. "You really need…"

Past her abdomen, and lower still. Oliver's eyes widened at the sight of her hand following the gentle curves of her lower body, descending past the covers until Felicity's fingertips found the wet heat between her legs. She sighed and tossed her head back, her words slurring from distraction.

"…to use your…"

They were both watching Felicity's hand now, a moving shape hidden underneath the white duvet, shifting the material in the small sinuous motions of a demonstration — _how to make Felicity lose her train of thought_.

Felicity's eyes drifted closed, and she arched slightly at the base of her spine, working herself slowly and insistently.

"… _imagination_ ," she managed, and she was suddenly aware of Oliver's hand on her wrist, the other on the duvet screening her hips from view.

The covers, he tugged — firmly — _down_ , past her thighs and knees, all but stripping the bed in his urgency. Her hand, he still had trapped in his grip, and Felicity couldn't have kept it moving, even if she wanted to.

And she did, but she wanted him to pick up from where she'd left off, maybe just a _smidge_ more.

That smidge became a full-fledged, no-holds-barred _lusting_ when Oliver lifted her hand to his lips and tasted the slickness off her fingers in a single, languorous movement that made her imagine what his mouth — oh, his mouth — would be like between her legs.

Suffice it to say that stars and sweeping declarations of bliss were on the script.

"I can take it from here," he said, and Felicity gasped a word that sounded like _yes_.

* * *

Oliver wasn't there when Felicity woke sometime in the night. Ever since she'd gotten pregnant, she'd been waking in short spells during the early hours, and Oliver — a perpetually light sleeper — was always beside her if she wanted to snuggle close, or if she wanted to talk until they both drifted off again.

But not tonight. There was a slightly depression on the pillow where his head had been, but no Oliver.

Felicity was naked beneath the covers, which had been tucked up to her chin like he'd taken the time to make sure she was warm in his absence. The probability of Oliver returning was enough to delay Felicity going downstairs to look for him, but not to go back to sleep. Resolving to wait, she groped around the bedclothes for her discarded tablet and cleared the list of trashy tabloids in favor of some actual news publications, mainly to see what the general reaction was to Oliver Queen's unscripted public speaking adventure.

At first, Felicity had to pinch herself. Because it could easily have been a dream, and because the reaction — at least her reading of it — was good.

Like, _really good_.

She'd expected some disparaging take-downs, more than a few snide comments about billionaires who couldn't sit still and let qualified professionals handle the crime-fighting. Because that was human nature. Hell, that was Starling. Always something to gripe about. Being constantly happy was Central City's thing — not theirs.

Except over their local Robin Hood, now officially coined the _Green Arrow_. Oliver wasn't being treated as a joke, like some billionaire suiting up in leather and picking up a bow and arrow until his multi-million interests took him to the next fad.

They were seeing him as Felicity did. Someone with a less-than-perfect past, who'd been through some bad things, and come out the other side a different person. Someone willing to sacrifice everything to protect his home. Someone brave, and honest, and real.

A hero.

Grinning from ear to ear, Felicity pushed her way out of the toasty cocoon and reached for the robe draped across the headboard, pulling the ties closed around her body before slipping barefoot from the room.

Felicity padded down the steps in a hurry, hugging the tablet close to her chest. She had a hunch where Oliver might go if he couldn't sleep, and sure enough — her instincts proved right again. Oliver was alone on the balcony, leaning on the rail and looking out over the perpetual lights in Starling City.

It was late June, and the balmy breeze stirred Felicity's rumpled hair when she slid the glass door aside to join him. Oliver gave a faint start at the sound, like he'd been jolted from a train of thought, and he hastily schooled his features in a smile.

Which she didn't buy — at all.

"Hey," Felicity said, her voice a little husky. "What's going on?"

"Couldn't sleep," he answered. "I didn't want to wake you."

It didn't take a degree from MIT to guess that Oliver was preoccupied with the unexpected visitor they'd encountered at his office party, but Felicity nodded anyway, playing along until he was ready to talk.

Felicity stepped up to join him at the railing, sliding her hand across the warm steel until her fingertips were almost brushing Oliver's wrist. "Because I _never_ wake you up at night," she said lightly.

Oliver tucked a loose curl behind her ear and leaned forward to kiss her. "You're carrying our baby," he said, by way of explanation. "You deserve all the sleep you can get."

There was something preciously innocent about Oliver — who'd been gifted with an impressively intimidating physical presence and a built-in angry face — being so attentive and so careful about the fragile new life in Felicity's safekeeping. It was evident that neither of them knew what they were doing with this first baby, but Oliver seemed determined to do everything right, down to the doctor's appointments (their first sonogram was marked prominently on the refrigerator calendar and in his phone's reminders) and the home remedies for morning sickness, which made it both very cute and beyond-words sweet.

It got him another kiss, this time on the cheek. Oliver wrapped his arm around her shoulders, chafing it as if to keep her from feeling the cold.

"What's this?" he asked, indicating the tablet she'd brought along with her.

Felicity smiled. "I wanted you to see something," she said, and brought up one of the articles she'd been reading. "It's about you."

Oliver looked curious, but he led her into the kitchen to continue the conversation, filling the electric kettle at the sink to make tea while Felicity perched on one of the high stools, looking for the excerpt she'd marked.

"' _My name is Oliver Queen, I am the Green Arrow…and we are the Justice League,_ '" Felicity read aloud, as Oliver moved around the kitchen in the background. " _With these words, Mr. Queen does what few people in history ever have. He's merged the faces of public and private, persona and person, Oliver Queen and Starling City's own Emerald Archer._ "

Oliver set down a _Dr. Who_ mug of steaming ginger tea and a tupperware of saltines, and Felicity squeezed his arm in thanks, because she was still scrolling through the article to keep her place, excited for him to hear. " _In a closing line sure to become iconic, Mr. Queen marks the advent of a new age in Starling City — one that seems destined to supplant the era of mob politics and corruption our citizens have learned to live with. Politicians speak of cleaning up the city and lowering crime rates at every election, but whether intentionally or not, the movement spearheaded by Mr. Queen seems to challenge them (our incumbent Mayor Ms. Castle included) to prove their words as more than mere rhetoric._

" _This is an age of new beginnings, an age of justice, an age of heroes — and we at the_ Sentinel _find ourselves privileged to stand with Mr. Oliver Queen, the Green Arrow._ "

Felicity lowered her tablet with something in her heart that could only have been described as stunned pride. She looked around at Oliver, who had joined her at the kitchen table. But his head was lowered, hands loose and open on the flecked countertop, and his posture gave little — if any — indication that he'd heard anything resembling praise.

Which this _so_ was.

"It's nice," he said, in a response that could only qualify as _lame_.

" _Nice_ ," Felicity repeated, wondering dubiously if all those proximity explosions had funked with his hearing. "Sunshine is _nice_ , ginger tea for pregnant women is _nice_ , Oliver. This — _this_ — is fantastic."

"Mm," Oliver said, non-committal to the last.

That was when Felicity realized she'd been getting ahead of herself. Oliver had spent the better part of two years on the run from the police and dodging unfriendly fire from the underbelly of Starling City. Having the same city show him mostly support and acceptance could give anyone whiplash, much less someone whose emotional capacity had always veered towards the underdeveloped side.

Even though she wasn't hungry, Felicity reached for a saltine and broke it in two. "Cracker?" she asked.

Sure, a saltine wasn't _the best_ segue into an honest conversation, but she'd made do with a lot less, and in worse circumstances. Oliver smiled a little and took half, crumbling it between his fingers as though to give his hands something to do.

"I'm sorry," he said, his eyes on the table. "I'm just…not used to all of this."

Felicity picked up her mug. "You'll have to be more specific," she said, blowing gently to cool the hot tea. "Do you mean _not_ being shot at? Or people thinking that putting your life on the line and sacrificing everything for the last four years makes you a hero?"

Oliver didn't answer, but it'd been a rhetorical question anyway. Taking his reticence as a sign to slow her horses, Felicity cranked her enthusiasm down to a low optimistic hum.

"Nothing stays the same, Oliver," she said. "I don't know about you, but one of the things I put under the heading _Eventually_ was the city finding out about Green Arrow — and being _more_ than okay with it. So why aren't you?"

Oliver exhaled, and she knew they were getting to the root of the problem. "I was just thinking…about something Wayne said. About the mask. What it means — what it _should_ mean."

"Who? The billionaire-by-day who runs around in a cape and cowl by night — that guy?"

"Which isn't anything like a green hood and a bow," Oliver pointed out. "I can't exactly judge."

"I know _you_ can't," Felicity answered, chewing on a saltine. "But no one said anything about me."

Oliver smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Wayne told us that the mask is a symbol," he said firmly. "A man can be torn down — killed — his memory tarnished, but the mask…it's something meant to live on after the man behind it. Something meant to protect the legacy it leaves behind."

Felicity knew what Oliver was about to say. "Oliver…there's more than one way. You know that, right?"

"I do. I do know. But…" Oliver turned the mug slowly between his broad hands, looking like he was struggling to put his finger on the right answer. "What if _I_ chose the wrong one? What if Wayne's right, and showing Starling the face under the hood is going to undermine everything the Arrow worked for?"

"What _you_ worked for, Oliver," Felicity corrected. "What _we_ all worked for. Wayne's a smart guy — really smart — but what works in Gotham doesn't automatically work in Starling. You're a good person, and this is _your_ legacy as much as ours, so why —?"

"Because that's what Oliver Queen does." Oliver lifted his shoulders, a gesture that was as honest as it was helpless. "If there's one right thing I've ever done in my life, it was falling in love with you — and even that I managed to screw up for more than three years. A city — a _legacy_ — the Justice League — what if it all comes crashing down because I make a mistake?"

Felicity slipped from her chair and her bare feet hit the ground with a slap. "So _make_ one," she said bluntly. "We're human, Oliver, and yes — that means we fear, and yes — it means we bleed. But that doesn't make us weak, because sometimes being human is _the_ strongest thing in the world. We all make mistakes at some point in our lives, and it's what we do after we make them that defines who we are."

Felicity was at his side now, gently rubbing the back of his neck and shoulders in the way she knew relaxed him. "Being the Green Arrow is new. It's different, and it's not going to be easy, but the _city_ believed in you — for four whole years. It still does. They don't expect you to be perfect, but they expect you to fight — hard — because _that's_ who you are. Not some hood, not some mask, but a heart — a _human_ heart. Your humanity and your courage got you this far, and that's what Starling City believes in. It may not be a cape and cowl or some kind of fancy symbol, but it's pretty damn indestructible, because you can't tear down humanity, or courage — it just _is_."

Felicity slid her hand down to rest over his heartbeat. "That's what Starling City sees in the Green Arrow, and you're not going to screw anything up by being yourself."

Oliver looked at her. "Myself," he said softly. "I don't have a lot of experience with that."

Felicity wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him from behind, the simplest thing she could think to do. "No," she agreed. "But what you do have is a lot of experience in being human. And that's your legacy — not some faceless mask — but an ordinary man who stood up to fight for his city, and made… _all_ the difference in the world."

Oliver reached behind him and took one of her hands in his. Felicity closed her eyes briefly when he brushed his lips across her knuckles. She could feel Oliver's heartbeat through her own chest, feel the way his breath stirred the fall of hair by her ear. "How are you always so sure of everything?" he asked.

Felicity looked him very seriously in the eye. "Impending motherhood makes women very wise," she said, and Oliver gave a low laugh.

"You've always been wise, Felicity," he promised. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Felicity kissed him softly on the cheek. "You won't have to find out," she promised. "I'll be here. Always."

Felicity waited, because it seemed like Oliver was trying to say something else. "What is it?" she asked.

Oliver's grip tightened slightly on her hand. "I've been thinking…" he began. "I don't want to wear a mask anymore, and…"

"And?" Felicity nudged.

Oliver met her gaze. "Do you think I'm ready to meet Connor?"

For the longest moment, Felicity didn't move, hardly daring to believe it. At the back of her mind were the words _one day_ , and Oliver was saying them — but this was here, and now, and Oliver was actually telling her that he wanted to see his son.

From the bottom of her heart, Felicity was proud. As proud of him as she had been the moment he stepped up to the microphone and told the world that he was Oliver Queen, and she wanted him to know it.

"Felicity?"

Suffice it to say that Oliver was utterly unprepared for what came next, because Felicity was suddenly laughing and holding his face and planting kisses everywhere she could reach with enough fervor to nearly knock Oliver from his seat.

He grabbed the edge of the counter to steady them both, bracing her waist with his free hand. "Felicity, why —?" Oliver said, sounding completely bewildered.

Felicity pressed her forehead to his, beaming with the simple emotion of being glad — so glad — that he'd changed his mind. "Because you're ready, Oliver. You're ready to meet your son."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'm pretty sure this chapter ended up being so long because of Bruce Wayne. Second of all, because I like to imagine Oliver in suspenders. I need him to wear tuxes more often in season 4. Thirdly, because I have excellent gutter buddies (you know who you are...), and...
> 
> Yep, sounds about right. Doesn't get any deeper than that :D


	84. First Meetings

When Felicity imagined the day Oliver would meet Connor for the first time, she hadn't anticipated sitting on the bathroom floor of their hotel room with a mug of hot tea beside the sink and a concerned husband rubbing her back while she tried not to ralph again.

"Sorry," she mumbled, around the hand clamped over her mouth.

"I can call Barry," Oliver suggested, sounding like he meant it. "He could be here in—"

"—a New York Minute, I know," she finished, and shot a pointed look at their bed, just visible through the bathroom doors.

It was very suggestively rumpled, in a way that left very little imagination as to what they'd been doing (if the unfastened bra across the headboard didn't already do the trick), and would probably scar their super-speedster friend for life.

She shook her head, trying not to think of the effort associated with covering their tracks. "S'not an emergency. You should go — you're going to be late."

"I'm always late," Oliver answered, which was very true.

"Not for this," Felicity said stubbornly, pushing at his leg to get him to go. All she did was probably give his calf muscle a decent squeeze, but it was the point that counted. " _Go_."

Felicity knew that Oliver didn't like the idea of leaving his pregnant wife nauseous on the bathroom floor to go meet his ex-girlfriend-slash-mother-of-his-child for coffee, a situation that only got weirder with the additional fact that said ex-girlfriend had spent the past two years brainwashed into working for the Russian mob because of a nano-implant created by said pregnant wife's father.

But the _weird_ of the situation fazed her a lot less than it would have about a month ago, and Felicity didn't want anything stopping Oliver from seeing Connor — especially not a reason that had anything to do with _her_ dad.

"Oliver Jonas Queen, do _not_ make me use my loud voice," she said.

Full-Naming him worked, and Oliver bent to kiss her (clammy) forehead, cupping her cheek in one hand. "I love you, Felicity," he murmured.

"Good luck," she said. "Speak from the heart, remember?"

Oliver still looked worried, but her smile was enough to get him out the door and towards doing the right thing — meeting the solemn, nine-year-old boy who was him in miniature, who had every right to know that he had a father.

Felicity didn't normally do a lot of serious praying, but she clasped her hands together and thought of them both — Oliver and Connor.

 _Please go okay_ , she thought. _Please_.

* * *

Sandra tucked her hair behind her ears — an old nervous habit Oliver remembered — and turned her head towards the people passing the tinted café windows. Her hair had been scrubbed clean of every trace of red and was back to the same brown it had always been, and apart from the Bratva tattoo hidden under it, Selena was gone — and the Sandra Hawke he knew was back.

"I'm sorry," she said, reaching for her coffee cup. The porcelain rattled against the saucer when she picked it up, and her hands were still trembling when she held the cup to her lips, avoiding his eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said again. "This is just… _surreal_."

Oliver nodded. "I understand. I know I wasn't supposed to get involved, and you—"

"It was the best thing for the both of us," Sandra said quickly, and hesitated. "For _him_."

Oliver didn't disagree. "I know," he admitted. "I needed to grow up."

"Grow up." Sandra's smile was sad. "Not become someone else."

Oliver was silent, because in that sentence was a wealth of distant possibilities, another future that depended on a version of Oliver Queen who had never been marooned on Lian Yu, who had never felt his soul chip away piece by piece in the darkest time of his life, who had never put on the hood and become the Green Arrow…

It was a version of Oliver Queen who had never fallen in love with Felicity Smoak and married her. Not unlike him and Laurel, the Oliver Queen Sandra remembered had died on the island, and they both knew it.

"I'm so proud of who you've become, and I'm happy for you, Oliver," Sandra said gently. "I couldn't live with myself if I knew that I'd ruined things for you and…Felicity. I'm glad I didn't."

"It wouldn't have been your fault," Oliver reminded her. "I'm only sorry you had to go through the things that you did. The Bratva isn't an easy thing to survive."

Sandra reached up to cover the tattoo with her palm, chafing it absentmindedly as he spoke. "I can't even believe half the things they told me — Cadmus, I mean. Mind control…it sounds like something straight out of Connor's books."

Oliver gave a faint start at his son's name, which Sandra noticed. "You've seen the pictures — he looks just like you," she said, and a glimmer of mischief appeared in her eye. "Less of a dummy, though."

Oliver laughed softly. "Thank god for that."

A genuine smile warmed Sandra's face, and she stretched her hand across the table to touch Oliver's arm. It wasn't anything more than a gesture of reassurance, as platonic as a handshake, just the simple acknowledgment that they were parents to the same bright, young boy.

"Would you like to meet him?" she asked.

Oliver hadn't dared to ask; he hadn't thought it was right. Connor was more Sandra's son than his. She'd given birth to him, she'd raised him, and it was her choice to make — whether she wanted him to play a part, as belated as it was, in their child's life.

"Yes," Oliver replied, simply. "Please."

Sandra nodded and took out her phone to make a call. "It's a school day," she explained, looking through her contacts. "He's still in Hanover — all his friends are there — but I didn't want him staying in the dorms, not anymore."

"How did he take it?" Oliver asked. "About why you were away?"

Sandra paused, looking like she was trying to find the words to describe him. "Connor…Connor's a very kind boy. I'm his mother, and I left him for two years, but the first thing he did when I came back, was run — straight to me."

Her eyes were bright at the recollection, and she dabbed at them with a napkin, seemingly embarrassed by her tears. "I know it's not going to be easy," she said, with a firm nod, "but Connor has a good heart — a kind heart. He might not think of you as his father right now, but the last thing he'll do is turn you away."

Oliver nodded. "Thank you, Sandra. I know how difficult this must be for you."

"My son has a father in his life." Sandra lifted the phone to her ear with a smile. "What more could I want?"

The call connected almost immediately, and Oliver drank his coffee while Sandra spoke to the school about a visit. At first, it seemed to be going well, until her expression changed — from hopeful to incredulous.

"What do you mean, you can't find him?" she said.

* * *

"He _what?_ " Felicity said, and her raised voice echoed back at her from the bathroom tiles.

"He's not here." Oliver was pacing, she could tell, the phone pressed to his ear and rubbing his forehead as if to ward off the headache. "His bag's gone, and his teachers only saw him run out of the building when the bell rang for lunch."

Felicity covered her mouth, and it wasn't because she needed to throw up again. Things were turning out worse, so much worse than she'd imagined they could.

_So much for praying._

"Felicity," Oliver began. "What if —?"

"Don't," Felicity interrupted, before he could finish the worst of his sentence. "If he has a cell phone — oh, who am I kidding, of course he does, he was born in the twenty-first century and he goes to private school — I can do something with that."

"You can track him?"

Given the fact that Oliver's kid had just pulled a vanishing act, Felicity refrained from feeling too insulted. But she did roll her eyes as she climbed to her feet and hurried towards the desk. "Does the sun still rise in the east?"

Someone was speaking on Oliver's end of the line — it sounded like Sandra. The reception was getting garbled, like they were walking into a building with bad cell service. Felicity powered up her tablet and quickly typed the numbers into her tracking algorithm before she lost him. "I'll call you when I have a location," she said. "Do you need to go?"

"I'm at the police station, Detective West wants to —"

"Go," she said immediately. "I'll call."

Almost as soon as the line cut off, Felicity's program came back with a location. She stared at the result for longer than she should have, seriously wondering if Oliver wasn't the only one having an off-day.

Because it told her that Connor was still at the school.

The queasy feeling from her morning sickness hadn't quite evaporated just yet, and Felicity had an optimistic inkling that it wasn't going to be the only time in her life she'd have to drag her nausea-afflicted corpse out of bed for something to do with a kid.

Especially a kid — any kid — with half of Oliver's genetic material.

She could only imagine the level of trouble-making they'd get into, based on genetic predisposition alone. Not that she could judge, since she'd just sworn to herself that this was the first and only time she would hack her way through the back entrance of an elementary school's campus.

"I _really_ hope this doesn't make me creepy," she muttered, unplugging her tablet from the back gate's access pad as it swung open to admit her.

Leaves crunched softly under her heels as she made her way through the green carpet beneath the school's bower of tall oak trees, following the trace on the screen of her tablet. It was the kind of hot day that necessitated bare legs and a sundress, as evidenced by the blazing golden sunshine dappling through the tree cover, but the shadows in their wake were as cool as a spray of fine mist.

The algorithm had tracked Connor all the way to the back gardens, where Felicity distinctly remembered seeing him scurry up a tree with inhuman grace. If Connor was anything like his father, a few disciplinary warnings for tree-climbing weren't likely to have the desired effect of _cease-and-desist_. She hadn't called Oliver in case it turned out to be a false lead, because there was a chance that Connor had dropped his phone around the trees while climbing, in which case she'd have to think of a better way to find Oliver's son that didn't involve having Barry comb through the city, Road Runner-style.

Her tablet pinged, telling her that she'd reached the exact spot. Felicity looked down at the fallen leaves for any sign of a phone, turning over a few rocks and scaring (while simultaneously being scared _by_ ) a few improbably large spiders lurking underneath the foliage.

No phone. Which meant —

A leaf glanced off Felicity's shoulder, making her spin around on instinct. It'd fallen from the canopy overhead, and in the absolute stillness, she could sense something going quiet in the large oak tree above her head, maybe the slightest bend of a twig its inhabitant was trying not to snap, the curious stare of a nine-year-old boy watching to see why a strange woman had found his tree.

"Connor?" she said. "Are you up there?"

The small noises went even more conspicuously still, as if Connor had frozen, hopefully because he thought she was going to haul him off to the principal's office, not do anything that might land her on the kind of databases people checked before buying their houses.

She tried again.

"Connor, your mom's looking for you, and she's _really_ worried."

A lame attempt, but to be entirely fair — Felicity didn't have a lot of experience with trying to get prepubescent boys down from trees. Her elementary school self would probably have excelled at doing the opposite, had said self left the computer room (spoiler alert: she didn't).

Then —

Some loud rustling, and a face appeared suddenly between a forked branch. "How did you get in here?" Connor asked, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Even though Felicity knew what he looked like, it was still a small shock to see a mini-Oliver peering at her from a tree. Because he did — he _really_ did look like Oliver, from the ashy gold of his hair, the shape of his startling blue eyes, down to the age-inappropriate expression of wariness that Felicity knew from all those times someone came near an injured Oliver with a suture needle.

Connor looked so much like his father — _naturally_ her brain decided to break out the patented Oliver Queen-induced babble.

"Didn't your mom ever tell you not to talk to strangers?" she laughed nervously, before she realized (weirdly) that a stranger-wary attitude was the exact opposite of what she wanted.

Connor raised his eyebrows in a _do you want to try again?_ way that reminded her of Oliver looking at Barry whenever he lost his verbal filter.

"I mean — I swear I'm not a bad person," Felicity amended. She even held up her hands to show him that she wasn't crossing her fingers. "See? One-hundred-percent truth."

"I know a girl who can cross her toes," Connor said, in a matter-of-fact way. "Did you climb over the fence?"

Felicity looked automatically down at her striped sundress. "God no," she said, and waved her tablet. "I hacked."

She could instantly tell that she'd gotten his attention. Connor leaned forward, scattering a few more leaves. "Cool," he breathed. "How?"

"The gate uses a KB506-bit to encrypt access codes, so all I had to do was slip a sub-system bot into the refresh cycle and it manufactured a personal code for me — easy."

Connor blinked. "Can you make me one?"

"Why do you need an access code? If you can climb that tree, you can climb straight over the fence," Felicity pointed out reasonably (probably not the best thing she could have said, but still). "Hacking's for people with no physical stamina — like me."

Connor eyed Felicity — who was a little winded from all the talking and stubborn morning sickness — and seemed to agree she had a point. "That's true," he conceded. "So who are you?"

Felicity bit the inside of her cheek, because she was not — repeat, _not_ — going to blab. It was for Sandra to tell Connor, and her unrestrained verbal faculties were _not_ going to screw things up.

"Well, I _think_ I might be a friend of a friend of your mom's," she said, glossing over the fact that the last time they'd seen each other had involved the heavy use of roundhouse kicks and a few non-lethal nanite bullets in the stomach.

"Why do you _think_ you're a friend of a friend?" Connor asked.

For once, Felicity had an idea of what it was like to be Oliver. "You ask a _lot_ of questions, don't you, kid?"

This didn't seem to surprise Connor. "That's what my mom says," he said, flicking a leaf off his forearm.

"It's a good life skill," Felicity agreed. "Question everything, and don't shut up until they give you an answer. That's how I got my first job — that and staying in school. And getting straight As. And not doing dr— _drama_ club. Colleges really _hate_ that. Drama queens — _not_ — anything else that starts with a D."

_Phew. Close one._

Connor stared at her with a mixture of bafflement and interest, but it was a surprisingly gratifying moment when his solemn little face shifted into a tentative smile. Felicity gladly returned it in spades, stretching out her hand for him to shake.

"I'm Felicity," she said. "Do you maybe wanna come down from there? My neck's killing me."

Connor disappeared into the branches with a rustle, and Felicity leapt back with a yelp when a dog-eared, water-stained algebra notebook thudded abruptly in the grass at her feet, followed shortly by a large school backpack, which probably squashed a slow-moving spider or two upon landing (no regrets there).

A second later, Connor dropped into the leaves with the soundless grace of a cat. When he straightened up, his head was a few inches shy of Felicity's shoulder, and he showed every sign that he'd be a tall boy — maybe even taller than his father. There were bits of dead leaf and twig in his hair, and Felicity brushed them from his head with an unthinking maternal instinct, before she even realized what she was doing.

Connor didn't seem to mind. Contrary to most nine-year-old boys who pretended like they couldn't stand hugs, Connor let her brush off his hair instead of batting her away, more preoccupied with pulling the dusty backpack onto his shoulders and shaking the leaves from his math homework (a sign of true dedication, doing one's algebra assignments in a tree).

"I'm Connor," he said, self-consciously holding out his hand to mirror hers.

It was a simplistically sweet moment, being trusted by this unfamiliar child who looked so much like Oliver, and Felicity smiled, swinging Connor's hand in hers. "Hi, Connor. I think there's someone your mom wants you to meet — do you wanna wait for her in the school?"

Connor looked startled, but nodded. "Okay."

* * *

Oliver didn't know what to expect, when he'd gotten the call from Felicity that Connor was at the school. He'd been so preoccupied with his worries about seeing his son for the first time that the possibility of Felicity meeting Connor before he did hadn't even crossed his mind.

But he spotted them first, in front of the school building. Felicity was sitting on the stone steps in a yellow sundress, swaying lightly from side to side while she chatted to the small boy beside her.

Oliver stopped in his tracks, taken aback by the sight of Connor with Felicity. It was plain that Connor resembled him greatly, and for a single — very private — instant, Oliver saw Felicity sitting by their child, teasing and laughing and listening to the son or daughter who hadn't even been born yet.

In that moment, Oliver knew he could never have doubted that Felicity was ready to be a mother, because there she was — with a child who wasn't even hers — lavishing her smiles and attention in the single-mindedly generous way that had always been _her_.

And he loved her all the more for it.

Oliver had seen them first, but his response had been dulled by muted shock, and Sandra's small cry of relief was what jolted him from the momentary inertia.

"Connor!" she said, and rushed forward.

Felicity — for some reason — had a grubby lined notebook in her arms when she got to her feet, brushing off her skirt as she did. Connor was in his mother's arms before any of them could say another word, watched by a concerned-looking teacher who seemed to be apologizing.

Sandra still had Connor in her arms when she spoke to Felicity over her son's head, saying something that made Felicity take a modest step backward with her hands raised.

Felicity turned her head to look for Oliver, and caught sight of him at the gate. She widened her eyes and tilted her head towards Connor in an unmistakable sign for Oliver to move. So he did.

It was nervous, and more tentative than anything Oliver had ever done, but he made the short walk on his own, until he was just a few steps shy of Sandra and Connor. He felt utterly unprepared, unsure of what to do with his hands, or how to stand, or even of what he could say, under the circumstances.

But Felicity — thank god for Felicity — slipped her hand into his, pressing a quiet kiss to his shoulder. She didn't say anything, because the warmth of her palm in the middle of his back was enough to remind Oliver that he wasn't alone, that he had nothing to fear, that she believed in him.

 _Speak from the heart_.

Sandra sent the teacher away and faced her son again. She touched Connor's cheeks, a bracing gesture that was as much for her as it was for the boy.

"Connor, sweetheart, I want you to meet someone," she said, and looked over her shoulder at Oliver.

Connor followed the direction of his mother's gaze, and Oliver met his son's eyes for the first time. The blueness of them sent a strange flutter of recognition through his heart, even though they'd never met before, and they took him in with an intelligent curiosity, maybe a little apprehension — because he was a stranger, after all.

And in a moment of clarity, Oliver realized that he didn't want to be. Not anymore.

"This is Oliver," Sandra said gently. "He's your father, Connor, and he's wanted to meet you for a very long time."

This time, Oliver didn't need any prompting from Felicity. Very slowly, and very carefully, he knelt in front of his son. Connor watched him sink to his knees with widened eyes, but it was surprise, not denial, that Oliver read in his posture.

A part of Oliver had been afraid that Connor couldn't handle hearing the truth, but now, looking him in the eye, there was something about this solemn-faced boy — with all his seriousness and unassuming manners — that told him there was nothing to fear.

After all, the truth could be more powerful than anything they could ever imagine.

"Hi, Connor," Oliver said softly. "It's very nice to meet you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Thursday night, I've made nefarious plans to badger my Intellectual Property law professor with questions about fanfiction and copyrights, and I have a nice Banoffee cupcake waiting for me in the fridge as my reward (for writing, not the badgering).
> 
> Until the next update, cheers :)


	85. Dessert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gahhhhhh Arrow season 4 is almost back and I can't take it :DDDDDDD

Felicity wiped a hand across the steamed-up mirror in Oliver's bathroom, half-expecting to see a desiccated corpse staring back at her.

Nope. Just one (mildly) sleep-deprived mother-to-be, unfortunately _not_ revived by a hot morning shower.

Felicity ran warm water into the fancy sink and started to brush her teeth, going through the average human being's morning routine with the mechanical unthinkingness of someone who would _much_ rather have been sleeping in.

Grownup priorities aside, she was starting to regret scheduling a morning appointment with the realtor. She didn't know what the rulebook said, but after an _almost-missing-but-not-really_ scare with Oliver's nine-year-old son, meeting said son for the first time, and a delayed late-night train from Central City — most human beings would have chosen to lie face down in bed and recuperate from the emotional whiplash.

Not them. They had to go look at houses, which — admittedly — Felicity might have been able to face. With coffee. Latte. Extra sugar.

Felicity groaned and spat her mouthful of toothpaste into the sink, trying not to think about the coffee that was strictly off-limits for at least thirty-two more weeks (Felicity was trying to get herself past the actual pregnancy hump — so to speak — before she contemplated the no-coffee part of breastfeeding). Admittedly, Oliver had been _perfect_ about the dietary stuff, as evidenced by the suspicious self-emptying of the mind-blowing wine cabinet in his kitchen, the sudden appearance of fresh fruit and vegetables in the fridge crisper, multi-vitamins and folic acid conveniently within reach at mealtimes, and the unsolved kidnapping of the coffeemakers at _both_ their apartments.

Felicity almost snorted her face wash at the thought of Oliver, Diggle, and Roy frantically securing the wine and coffeemakers in military-grade footlockers so that she wouldn't have a pregnancy-level _oopsie_. It was an entertaining mental image, though Oliver (not being insane) had probably just given the wine to Donna and Thea, and hidden the coffee-brewing apparatus in a pile of training equipment at the new headquarters (thereby making sure she'd _never_ get within a five-mile radius of it).

Privately, Felicity knew all Oliver had needed to do was tie a couple of kale leaves to everything and she probably would have reacted the way a vampire did to sunlight, kale being _the_ most disgusting thing man had ever picked up and deemed edible (nutritional value could suck it).

But she wasn't about to tell him that.

Felicity dried her face on a towel and poked her head out of the bathroom to check on her husband. As far as she could tell, he was exactly where she'd left him — in bed, asleep on his stomach. It was a warm morning, and since she'd kicked the duvet off in the night and left it spilled all over her side of the bed, there was just a sheet half-covering Oliver's masterpiece of a back.

Careful not to make a sound, Felicity padded barefoot over to Oliver's side and sat on the edge of the mattress. It was _so_ not her thing to watch people sleep, but today she made an exception, because Oliver looked so quietly — perfectly — at peace. She could tell that meeting Connor for real had taken a weight off his shoulders, not just because the boy was quite possibly one of the cutest nine-year-olds she had ever encountered, but because Oliver's ominous fears that his son might hate him had turned out to be just that — fears _._

Sure, they weren't the disgustingly cute father-son pair yet, but Connor had accepted Oliver's promise that he'd be back in Central City in two weeks, and Felicity had a burgeoning suspicion that if they were left alone long enough, she might catch Oliver either perfecting his son's tree-scaling technique, or teaching him a few junior parkour moves — if not straight-up archery.

She couldn't wait to see it.

Oliver had a tendency to underestimate himself at anything remotely pleasant, and being a father was one of them. Granted, he hadn't exactly been programmed to be constantly smiling, but when he did — it was like the sun breaking through cloud cover, and Felicity knew, come hell or high water, that there was nothing Oliver wouldn't do for his children.

It could have been her imagination, but Oliver looked like he was on the verge of smiling in his sleep. Felicity's face warmed, and she lightly traced the small lines at the corners of his eyes, following the shape of his jaw down to the slight quirk at the edge of his mouth.

He _was_ smiling.

Felicity was just thinking what it might be like to kiss Oliver in his sleep when he stirred.

"You can, you know," he said, without opening his eyes.

Felicity laughed in surprise. "Creeper," she murmured.

"Says the person watching me sleep."

"But you weren't really asleep."

Oliver rolled onto his back, which was a wholly distracting sight by itself — what with him not wearing a shirt to bed. Felicity was having trouble deciding which part of him to focus on — arms, chest, or lower still — when Oliver turned his head and pressed a kiss into the palm of her hand.

"Thank you for meeting Connor with me," he said, a sentence Felicity hadn't been expecting — at all.

But she was glad to hear it, for many, _many_ reasons, and she stroked Oliver's cheek, smiling at the one that mattered most to her.

"You're happy," she whispered.

Oliver nodded. "I'm happy," he agreed, like there was nowhere else in the world he would rather have been. Nowhere else, except a warm bed on a warmer June morning, with her, at 8:42 on a Saturday.

_8:42_

It dawned on Felicity just as her face was inches away from Oliver's, and she jerked back upright, nearly crashing the top of her head into his nose. "Frack," she said, staring at the bedside clock. "We have to go — we're meeting the realtor at ten—"

The rest of her sentence was lost when Oliver pulled her down for a kiss, one that lingered long enough for Felicity to be short on air when they eventually broke apart.

" _Oliver_ ," she said, surprise having reduced her verbal capabilities to single-word responses. " _Time_."

"We have time," Oliver promised, his hands sliding beneath her robe with delicious ease, providing a _very_ persuasive reason for her to join him in bed.

Felicity felt her spine go comfortably fluid at his touch, a warm rush of responsiveness starting somewhere near her navel.

"We're going…going to be…"

Oliver's mouth was on her neck now, and Felicity felt her back arch out of pure instinct, her head dipping back against the pillows to give him access to the hollow of her throat.

"Going to be…"

Felicity's voice was already scratchy, and she made a soft sound of surprise when the ties of her robe slipped apart and goosebumps rose all over her skin from the unanticipated rush of cool air.

Oliver had his hands on either sides of her hips, making unhurried progress from her collarbone, to her breasts — Felicity moaned when his tongue darted across her tender skin — her stomach — further down…

" _Late_ ," Felicity gasped, when she first felt the rasp of his stubble on her soft inner thighs.

"This," Oliver said, punctuating each word with a kiss," is a _thank you_."

Felicity let her head roll back, her toes twitching from the effort it took not to close her legs. "For…what?" she asked, trying not to think about how hot Oliver's breath was on her skin.

It was more of a rhetorical question, one Oliver answered anyway by pressing gently — but firmly — on her thighs to keep them spread, and bending his open mouth between her legs.

Felicity's hands twisted into the headboard, all but hauling at the wooden frame and trying not to swear as Oliver employed his linguistic gifts to mind-numbing, no-holds-barred effect. She'd dated enough people to find out about the alphabet trick, but Felicity swore Oliver had mastered numbers, sanskrit, complex shapes — whole _dance_ routines, even — when it came to doing…that.

She wasn't sure if it was pure dedication, perfected skills, or her _liking_ the sight of Oliver's head working between her thighs, but it was 8:52 on a Saturday morning and Felicity was about to lose her mind.

They were going to be _so_ late.

Their movements were making small, wet noises, and Felicity was starting to grind her hips, her nails scratching down the back of Oliver's neck and up into his hair again, gripping him like there was still room to get him even closer. She couldn't help it, any more than she could help the fact that they were going to be so, incredibly —

_Mother of fr—_

Felicity lost the thought when Oliver's tongue pressed on her — _hard_ — and pushed her building arousal into release. She cried out, clawing at the back of his neck in her surprise, her whole body going rigid from the shockwaves that had her toes quite literally curled tight.

The pulse beating in her ears was a moment deserving to be savored, and Felicity shut her eyes as gradually, slowly, she returned to herself.

And Oliver.

Who was still moving.

Still a little hard-pressed for speech, Felicity looked down to see what he was doing, because she could certainly _feel_ what he was up to. The kisses Oliver tracked across her belly and hips were moist and warm, a lovingly soft contrast to the ferocity of the moment that had Felicity melting from the simple bliss of it. Neither of them moved apart, and Felicity played absently with Oliver's hair, running her fingers through it before she realized that his kisses were moving in a determinedly downward trajectory — in the unmistakable vein of _we're not done yet_.

" _Late_ ," she reminded him, hovering on the precipice of insisting that they stop, but kept there because it was a suggestion that every nerve ending in her body instantly — and vehemently — opposed.

Oliver jerked his head once in disagreement, his fingers splaying across her belly. Felicity moaned again when his tongue lapped at her, and she relented.

"Just… _ah_ …one…more…" she sighed, and she could have sworn she heard Oliver laugh.

* * *

The sun streaming in from the skylight made the white sheet glow like paper lit from behind by a candle flame, and Oliver slid his hands up the smooth length of Felicity's spread legs, relishing the honey-golden sheen it gave her skin. She had a body made to be cherished in every kind of light — from the soft golds of nighttime candles to the blazing whites of daylight hours — and not for the first time, Oliver couldn't believe that she was his, this woman with the sun's kiss in her hair and the taste of summer on her skin.

Every twitch of his tongue was a carefully calibrated mixture of instinct and experience. Oliver drew on every last second of it to make sure Felicity knew just how grateful he was that she'd gone with him to Central City, that she'd stood by him through everything — even now.

The words escaping from Felicity's parted lips had long-since trailed off into unfiltered fragments of speech, glimpses into her brilliant mind as her body built towards a finish.

Her _fourth_ , if Oliver's count was right — and it was.

One of his favorite sounds of Felicity's (besides her laugh, and Oliver loved her laugh) was the soft moan from low in her throat, a sound that was both surprise and bliss, like she was coming apart at the seams and wanted him to bring her there. It was a beautiful thing to hear — a secret he was privileged to know — and Oliver squeezed her hips to mirror the pressure her legs exerted on either sides of his head. The silky undersides of her thighs were resting on his shoulders, her feet crossed tight at the ankles as she arched under him.

They were moving in tandem now, a rhythm in tune with the way Felicity's moans were slowly building, and Oliver nuzzled at her in soft, nudging motions, until her abdominal muscles were twitching beneath his hands. She was close now, and Oliver pressed deeper, harder — even though the sounds she made were almost in protest, because he knew her well enough to be merciless in his efforts at drawing out a finish — just like she would never have stopped if he was the one on his back.

Felicity was almost bucking under his tongue when Oliver drew back — just a little — and sucked gently on the most sensitive part of her — a simple gesture that sent her off with a shout, a half-strangled noise long outlasted by the deep, quaking shudder that coursed through every muscle in her body.

The taste of Felicity was on his lips when Oliver reared up from under the sheet to check that she was all right.

Felicity was lying on the pillows with an arm thrown over her eyes, her other hand fisted tight in her discarded robe. Her chest rose and fell rapidly from the pace of her breathing, and she didn't say anything until Oliver was back on the pillow beside her, quietly appreciating the aftermath of his work.

"Oh," she sighed, pressing her face into the pillow. "That was…"

She seemed to be having trouble with her words, a badge of achievement on Oliver's part that made him smile.

"Was that…for the…hospital?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he answered, innocently enough for her to crack one eye in an accusatory glare.

"Two can play…" Felicity mumbled. "Game, set… _something-sports-related…_ what?"

She turned her head, at a loss for words, and they looked at each other. Oliver was biting his lip in the struggle not to laugh, but Felicity was the one who broke first, opening her arms in a helpless _come here_ kind of way — a request Oliver happily obeyed.

Felicity was beautifully disheveled, radiating dozy satisfaction when Oliver leaned over to kiss her rosy, deliciously flushed cheeks, slowly working his way towards her lips. They were both smiling into the kiss, another private moment under the sun, in a shared bed that neither of them would have willingly left — especially not to spend the day looking at houses.

Oliver pulled back first, opening his eyes to take in the sight of his wife — laughing on the pillows, her arms flung above her head.

"Good morning," he murmured, stroking her cheek.

"It is _now_ ," she said, and kissed him again, under the light of a new day.

* * *

Felicity caught sight of her hair in someone else's mirror and smashed down the stubborn part of her hair that annoyingly refused to pretend she and Oliver had been late because of a traffic situation, _not_ because they'd been having sex — in any way, shape, or form.

But _such_ a nice form.

And shape.

And _everything_.

As if Oliver could sense Felicity ogling the fit of his jeans, he turned and caught her hair-fixing hand with a smile, gently tugging her through the wood-paneled hallway after the realtor.

Who was still talking about the house. "Last stop on the tour — living room. Original crown molding from the 1940s," Nancy said, indicating the living room walls as she turned, "and _beautiful_ hardwood flooring. Ash wood —"

"— _walnut_ —" Oliver muttered.

"—and a real, stone fireplace," Nancy finished. "What do you think?"

Felicity couldn't help but notice that the bulk of Nancy's question was addressed towards Oliver's torso, but she didn't blame anyone for that — not when he was wearing one of those plaid shirts that seemed to fit him _just_ right, and he'd rolled up the sleeves to get them out of the way, showing the muscles on his arms…

Felicity cleared her throat. Fantasizing about having sex with her husband in a stranger's house could wait. Probably.

"Could you give us a minute, please?" Oliver asked, and Nancy happily left them in the living room alone.

"She might actually give us a discount on the commission," Felicity said, leaning her elbows on the granite breakfast bar. "You know, if you offered to kiss her. Maybe even a _hug_ would do it."

"Funny." Oliver was standing by the white window seat, his arms folded. She watched his expression in profile as he looked out into the grassy backyard. It was more contemplative than anything else — not exactly the excitement she'd been expecting with the perfect house.

Felicity liked it. If anyone had asked her five years ago whether she'd see herself living in a Colonial New England-style home, she would have answered with a snort. But the setup was clean — all white, wood trim — the windows poured light into the ash-sorry- _walnut_ floors, and the window seats were a dream to curl up in. As stupid as it sounded, the idea of being able to sit in a window alcove with her favorite fleece throw blanket and all the _Harry Potter_ books was enough to make her seriously consider the house.

But there was Oliver — who wasn't exactly big on the sharing of feelings.

"Thoughts?" Felicity asked. "Love it, hate it, keep with the Cape Cods, or…?"

"It's nice," he said, which was Oliver Queen code for lukewarm, bordering on ambivalent.

Felicity felt a little bubble burst inside her chest, like the smidge of childish excitement at house-hunting had slammed face-first into the brick wall of reality. "Got it," she said, circling back around the counter with a smile. "We'll keep looking."

"I'm sorry," Oliver said, like he genuinely felt the need to apologize for not liking the _first_ house they saw.

Felicity kissed him on the cheek. "The breakfast bar's too high for me to sit on, anyway."

Oliver frowned. "Why would you want to sit on it?"

In response, Felicity leaned very suggestively into his personal space, sliding her hands around to grip him in a way that left _very_ little room for interpretation. " _Because_ ," she whispered, relishing the hitch in his breathing at having her so close. "It's our house."

Oliver — still holding onto her forearms — seemed to have achieved a total loss of words. Which only made Felicity grin in a way that strayed inside the borders of smug, because she still remembered Oliver's unconventional morning greeting (four, _four_ times).

"Come on," she said, pulling him after her. "Let's keep looking."

* * *

They did. For the rest of the afternoon. Which was a fun exercise in itself, but left Felicity with a slight problem. _More_ than slight, actually.

Diggle looked up from the renovation blueprints when Felicity strode into the new headquarters, looking distinctly the worse for wear. "We weren't expecting you for another hour," he said, pulling a chair out for her. "I thought you and Oliver were looking at houses."

Behind his back, Roy quietly (and very hastily) drained his cup of steaming coffee before Felicity's olfactory receptors could pounce on the drink, a slip-up that would most definitely have guaranteed his early demise in Oliver's book.

"Yeah," Thea said, patting a gasping Roy on the back (hot coffee was _not_ meant to be swallowed, shot glass-style), "what happened?"

Felicity dropped gracelessly into the chair and started pulling off her heels. "Your brother is currently buying everything he needs to make porcini risotto and chicken scallopine," she answered pointedly.

Thea nodded understandingly. "What did Ollie do this time?" she asked, because Italian food was Oliver's default setting when he thought he'd done something to land him in hot water.

"Nothing," Felicity said. "Really — nothing. _Fifteen properties_ , and I still have _no_ idea what house your brother sees himself living in for the next twenty years."

"Five years on an island and Oliver's being picky?" Roy coughed. "Just choose a house you like and give him a tent in the backyard."

All three of them — Diggle, Felicity, and Thea — gave Roy their best _not-helpful_ looks.

"Dutch Colonial, Tudor, Queen Anne, brownstone, Cape Cod, modern, minimalist," Felicity recited, doing a mental run-through of all the houses they'd seen in the course of the afternoon. "Nothing, except when I threw up in the backyard of this Sixties-era property, but in my defense — it was the Sixties."

Diggle came over to sit on the desk behind her, rubbing her shoulder in sympathy. "Oliver can scout locations for hideouts like it's nobody's business," he said. "I guess he needs a little more time with houses."

Very true. Oliver had an eye for abandoned train stations and parking basements, hidden vantage points on the roofs of dilapidated churches and factory complexes, but with place built for actual human dwelling, AKA _sans_ steam-hissing pipes and scurrying rats…?

Not so much.

Felicity turned to give Diggle a speculative look. "Any chance you can inception your way into making him choose something — I don't know — Queen Anne-ish?"

Diggle chuckled. "I'll give it my best shot, Felicity, but you know Oliver's as stubborn about making up as mind as you are."

Felicity dropped her head. "Unfortunately true," she sighed.

In all fairness, Oliver hadn't walked straight out of the houses. He'd listened — with remarkable attentiveness — to the realtor going through all the features of each property, from beds to baths to wine cellars and walk-in closets. He'd let his hand skim across glossy countertops and ducked into alcoves and window seats to peer through dusty windows at green backyards.

He hadn't actually _said_ anything to make her think he didn't like the houses, but an _it's nice_ from Oliver Queen was tantamount to a flat _no_ , as far as Felicity was concerned. A part of her was impatient to get settled into their home before her belly made finding her own feet an actual impossibility. She wanted to help with the moving and shifting and unpacking, not slouch around on sheet-covered furniture while her husband did all the work.

But the more rational part of her knew that this was a first — and crucial — step to building their future together. They'd done pretty much everything the unconventional way — meeting, dating, and marriage included — and Felicity wantedthis, their first actual home, to be _right_.

The italic kind of _right_. The _right_ that was impossible to define, because it just was, something unquestioned, something they knew deep in their bones, something they'd keep with them for the rest of their lives.

It was the kind of _right_ that was proving elusive, but Felicity knew they'd get there. Eventually. At some point.

She blew her breath out. "Okay," she said, sitting up. "It's only day one. Maybe I'm going too conventional — nobody's perfect, right? Maybe the perfect house for me and Oliver is —"

"—a former crack den?" Roy suggested.

Thea batted him on his uninjured forearm. "The best thing you can do is talk to Ollie," she said. "I'm sure you'll figure it out."

"Right," Felicity agreed, privately wondering if she'd have to employ some creative methods for getting the truth out of him — methods that involved him being flat on his back.

"And if all else fails, I have a two-person tent Oliver can buy for fifty bucks," Roy said, propping his feet up on the glass conference table with visible satisfaction.

* * *

Felicity pushed the last forkful of buttery chicken around her plate to catch a stray piece of asparagus. "I hope the neighbors didn't hear _that_ ," she said, afflicted with remorse from her embarrassing food groans.

Oliver was smiling at her from across the dinner table, his water glass forgotten in his hand. "Hear what?" he asked.

Felicity blushed and wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin. "The kind of things Oliver does with porcini mushrooms and chicken breasts," she said, in her best imitation of a sultry whisper. "And don't even get me _started_ on your asparagus."

A sentence that came out very wrong.

"My asparagus," Oliver repeated, making it abundantly clear that he'd heard it too.

Felicity made a face at him. "Consider yourself lucky that you didn't make anything with zucchini. Or eggplant. Or… _squash._ "

Felicity sighed, deciding _squash_ was a good segue to start clearing their plates.

"I'll do it," Oliver said, as soon as she got to her feet. He even twitched his empty plate out of her reach. "Sit — I'll get dessert."

"You cook, I clean, remember?" she reminded him, gathering the cutlery in one hand, the plates in the other. "I believe we agreed that was the least _lethal_ option for the two of us. Well —" she glanced down at her stomach "—three. _Four_ , if you count the food baby."

Humor aside, Oliver still looked determined to fight her on it, which led Felicity to employ the highly unethical ploy of distracting him with a surprise kiss so she could steal his dirty plate.

" _Ha_ ," she said over her shoulder, and disappeared into the kitchen with her hoard.

Felicity turned on the water while Oliver moved around her kitchen, opening cupboards and drawers and pulling things out of the fridge to set up dessert. She watched him whisk egg whites out the corner of her eye, wondering when — if ever — would be a good time to ask.

She was halfway through the rinsing when Oliver's arms encircled her waist, and she felt his lips touch her hair. He smelled like chocolate and butter, and Felicity swayed lightly against him, leaning her head on his chest.

"I'm sorry," he said. "About the houses."

Felicity picked up another plate. "We have time to decide," she said, deliberately keeping her voice casual. "But do you know — _what_ — you're looking for?"

Oliver shook his head. "It's nothing wrong with the houses, it's just…when I walk in, I get this feeling, like it's haunted by someone else's ghosts, and I don't want our children growing up in a place that —"

"—doesn't feel theirs," Felicity finished.

She put another plate into the stack, sensing Oliver's worry vibes from behind her.

"Most houses have a history, Oliver," she pointed out. "It's not easy to find a place that doesn't, and if we do — believe me, with our luck, that place will probably be haunted by _real_ ghosts, and I'm not sure we're equipped to harvest ectoplasm. _Although_ , Cisco might send some gear over as a baby shower present, so that's us covered —"

She trailed off when Oliver kissed her bare neck. "I promise I'll decide by the end of the month," he said, his chin on her shoulder. "If nothing turns up, I'll choose something. I promise."

"But I don't want you to." Felicity turned in his arms, careless of the fact that her hands were dripping water. "After everything you've been through, you deserve a perfect house. _The_ perfect kitchen you can see yourself making dinner in — because your wife can't cook to save her life…a living room where you can fall asleep reading a book — because even heroes need a break sometimes…a baby's room we can paint a truly _awful_ color that your sister's going to redecorate anyway…a garden where you can teach our kids how to climb trees and maybe grow some flowers for your semi-attractive wife — no pressure — oh, and a bedroom."

Felicity pulled back to give a smiling Oliver her best smoldering look — even though it probably came off as mildly confused. "But I don't have to tell you what we'll be doing in there, right?"

Oliver's response was to slide his hand to the small of Felicity's back, pulling her flush against him for a kiss that let them both get a little carried away. Felicity was short on air by the end of it, her hair escaping in wisps from her ponytail, and judging by the way Oliver was holding her, it was _very_ apparent that neither of them were going to make it to dessert.

But before that —

"I'm going to make sure you find it — that's _my_ promise," she said firmly. "No matter how many places we have to see, even if we don't end up choosing anything. You being happy matters more to me than whatever house — or apartment — we live in."

From the expression on Oliver's face, it was pretty obvious that he was surprised — as if Felicity would have ever questioned his happiness as a priority.

"I love you, Felicity," he said, and she closed her eyes to the light, gentle kisses brushing her forehead and cheeks, already imagining what they'd feel like elsewhere. More sensitive _elsewhere_ s.

"Um — actual-dessert can wait for _dessert_ , right?" she asked breathlessly.

Oliver was already lifting her into his arms. "Absolutely," he promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone stop me. Really. Truly. Somebody send help. This fluff train is just running like crazy.


	86. Small Surprises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me just say in advance that I really like screwing with you guys. And that I really, really liked the soufflé promo :)

Felicity stirred from her satisfied doze at the smell of warm chocolate and sugared vanilla, feeling unreasonably pampered and thoroughly spoiled. Which — she reasoned — was for the baby.

Definitely for the baby.

She pulled the covers up to her chest and sat up against the headboard, appreciating the sight of a shirtless Oliver bringing their dessert on a tray.

" _Mm_ ," she said, inhaling the aroma of two chocolate soufflés, baked to perfection, dusted with powdered sugar and a generous dollop of whipped cream. "Can we make this a regular thing — you bringing me dessert in bed, _never_ wearing a shirt?"

Oliver laughed, setting the tray down between them. "I always make you dessert," he said.

Felicity waved her spoon, having just taken the first — _heavenly_ — bite of his chocolate soufflé. "But the shirtless and bed part are non-negotiable must-haves," she insisted. "We're still in the honeymoon period for our marriage — if you want me to keep shaving my legs and doing that morning thing you like for the next twenty-five years, you're losing that shirt every Saturday night to bring me dessert in bed."

Oliver leaned across the soufflés to kiss her, chocolate on her lips or not. "You know the answer to that," he said.

"I do, actually," Felicity said, dabbing at the chocolate she'd managed to smear onto his chin. "I just wanted to make you think you'd grown as a person."

"Is that right," he answered, showing every sign that he meant to put actual-dessert on hold again.

" _Oliver_ ," Felicity laughed, holding up her chocolate-y fingertips. " _Dessert._ "

"I know," he said unconcernedly, nuzzling at her throat.

The doorbell rang out of nowhere, right before Felicity had been about to suggest a fun — and moderately inappropriate — activity they could do with the dessert.

"Leave it," she said immediately. "We're not home."

But Oliver was already heading out to answer the door — either forgetting or simply not caring that he was barefoot and wearing nothing except sweatpants. Felicity licked the whipped cream off her spoon while she waited, half-listening to the short conversation at the door — some kind of delivery, apparently — until Oliver returned to the room.

Bearing flowers.

"Jesus, Oliver," Felicity said, more than a little alarmed at the lengths he was going to apologize. "Cooking me dinner, dessert, and _dessert_ -dessert is more than enough — you didn't have to pay a fortune for a flower delivery."

Oliver had a strange expression on his face when he set the flowers in front of the vanity mirror. "I didn't," he answered. "I didn't send these."

Felicity reached for her robe, frowning. "You didn't?"

Oliver shook his head silently, which didn't lessen Felicity's curiosity at all. She walked up to the mirror to take a closer look at the gift. It was a spray of baby blue hyacinth and deep purple irises with hearts of buttery gold, surrounded by a fringe of sky-colored forget-me-nots — all in a pale porcelain vase that felt more than a smidge too expensive for a floral arrangement.

Felicity had always loved flowers, and she teased one of the pillowy-soft petals with her fingertip, biting her lip because the flowers smelled heavenly, like a green garden after fresh rain, something lush and deep and mysterious.

"They're beautiful," Oliver said, neatly summarizing what the both of them were thinking.

There was an unmistakable question in his tone, but Felicity decided to put a pin in it for later — at least until she found the card that came with it. She hunted amongst the leaves until she caught a small ivory card.

"It's addressed to Mrs. Queen," she said, flipping it to read the note.

_Always open to consult. You know who I am._

Just that. Felicity turned the card over, even though she knew there was nothing else. There was a suspicion unfolding at the back of her mind, a little nudge of intuition about who might have sent the flowers.

It reminded her of the person who'd told them, in a voice as darkly amused as it was enigmatically confident: _I do my best work in the dark_.

"Well, that's a little stalker-ish," she remarked, leaving the card on the table for Oliver to see. "I thought college lacrosse players were free, but you'd think a vigilante with a side job as a billionaire CEO might have better things to do than send married women flowers."

And she climbed back into bed to continue with her soufflé. But Oliver wasn't so quickly dissuaded. She sensed his preoccupation while he ate the dessert he'd made, his movements very nearly mechanic, which was a mood-killer, as far as further romance was concerned.

"Oliver," Felicity said, testing his attention levels. "Do you want to eat this off me?"

"Hm?" he said absently, which — if past history held — was _not_ Oliver's standard response to a request of that nature.

Felicity put down her half-finished dessert and strode up to the vase of flowers. She picked them up, card and all, and relocated them to the furthest corner of her kitchen like Donna would have, if it was a scary doll giving her kid daughter nightmares — not a gorgeous floral arrangement from a near-stranger that was making her husband act all weird.

"There," she said, brushing off her hands when she came back to bed. "Problem solved."

Apparently not.

"Why would he send you flowers?" Oliver asked. "Ray never —"

Felicity held up her spoon, cutting him off mid-sentence. "First of all, Ray thinks in terms of gears and kilowatt capacities, not flowers and chocolates, and we never dated, so sending his VP anything other than work emails would have been super-inappropriate. Second of all, Barry's salary as a CSI _barely_ covers the amount of beef-and-guac tacos he has in one _day_ , and we _also_ never dated. Most importantly, Oliver Queen — after the _very_ filthy things I did to you just now, and on a regular basis — are you actually jealous?"

She'd meant it as a joke, but Oliver looked at her — no laughter at all — and said, "Yes."

Felicity stared. "Why?" she asked.

"Because Wayne is — he's —"

Oliver seemed to be fumbling for a way to describe his less-than-friendly feelings towards Bruce Wayne.

"—I don't like him," he finished.

" _Shocker_ ," Felicity said. "You didn't like Ray because of his save-the-city thing, and you didn't like Barry because — well — I guess his fanboy-ing made you uncomfortable. Look, the point is, why would Bruce Wayne send flowers to my home address instead of Palmer Tech., on a Saturday night, when he _knows_ I'm probably with you?"

Oliver could be extraordinarily insightful when it came to human tactical behavior, but terrifically dense when it came to actual interaction — knowledge that was probably filed into a seldom-used box known only as _human stuff_ inside his head.

"He's messing with you, Oliver," Felicity said. "It's one of those man things, like when you give each other those nods and meaningful looks and think we don't see them — spoiler alert, _we do_ — and sending your _very married_ wife flowers…definitely falls into that category."

"Why would Wayne — _mess_ — with me?" Oliver asked, sounding like this was all news to him.

"Because it's _amazingly_ fun to tease you," Felicity answered, with no hesitation whatsoever. "Just you wait, we'll start the Justice League, he'll come over to _consult_ —" she made quotation marks around the word "—and you guys will bond over salmon ladders and fitting into leather-Kevlar costumes. It's all _very_ cute."

Felicity swallowed another bite of soufflé. "Trust me — this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. The Green Arrow and the Batm—"

Oliver plucked the ramekin straight out of Felicity's grasp, both their soufflés unfinished, and deposited the tray on the bedside table. Felicity still had chocolate on her lips when Oliver kissed her, a full-blown, ferocious _round two_ make out kiss that had her flat on her back and panting before she even knew what was going on.

"I've changed my mind," he announced, and Felicity watched him pull her robe apart with remarkable — and very arousing — focus.

" _Oliver_ ," she gasped, when his tongue skimmed around her breasts (which were still tender) in a skillfully light way that gave them a whole new kind of ache.

Oliver lifted his head and met her gaze unflinchingly. "I want my dessert — now."

That sentence alone was a _whole_ new kind of sexy, not even mentioning the way he said it — into her skin — sent delicious shivers rippling _everywhere_. Felicity's legs were already spreading for Oliver, but she grasped his shoulders to still him — if only so she could ask, as more of a formality than anything else. "Shouldn't we talk about this?" she said.

"We can talk," Oliver agreed, and her hips curved traitorously at the touch of his knee, slowly nudging her legs apart. "If you can."

It was an unmistakable challenge, and Felicity gave an unabashedly loud moan when he slid inside her, relishing Oliver's familiar weight and the perpetually startling intimacy of feeling — really feeling — every tremor and shift in each other's bodies.

Felicity wound her arms around Oliver's neck and used her hips to guide him into a gentle — blissful — rhythm. "Still jealous?" she whispered, looking up at him.

Oliver drew level with her, stroking the hair from her face. "I can think of thirty-two ways to put Wayne down," he said, very seriously. "Thirty-eight, if he flirts with you again."

"Do you now?" Felicity wriggled her hips, laughing quietly at the simple sound of Oliver groaning. "I guess I have thirty-eight ways to keep you on your toes. Well—"

She pushed Oliver flat on his back, pinning his wrists to the mattress. They were apart again, and she bent over him — close, but not close enough, tempting him with the _almost_.

" _Thirty-nine_ ," she said in his ear, and Oliver moaned a word that sounded very much like her name. "Am I going to have a problem with you, Mr. Queen?"

Oliver's very inappropriate (or appropriate, depending on how she looked at it) answer made Felicity laugh, and she let him slide home with a gasp.

* * *

"Uh, guys? Felicity just reached the doctor's office," Roy reported, from his position back in command. "She knows about the robbery at Sterling Bank, but I told her that we can handle it. We can handle it, right?"

Oliver threw himself behind a counter, dust showering him from the bullets smashing rapid-fire into the concrete overhead. He had plenty of experience with bad timing, but this — now, of _all_ days — potentially topped the list as far as nasty coincidences were concerned.

"I'm trying to concentrate," he said, through gritted teeth.

"You're the one leaving your pregnant wife alone at the doctor's off—"

" _Guys_ ," Thea interrupted. "There are six hostiles with machine guns in front of us, and they are _not_ happy that we crashed their cash-grabbing party. Can we _please_ leave the sniping for later?"

Roy didn't sound happy at being kept out of the field by his healing arm fracture, but he muttered something Oliver took as reluctant agreement.

"GA — on your six," Diggle said suddenly, and Oliver spun, firing at the first flicker of movement.

A bank robber crashed into the ground, struggling against a steel-cabled net.

Roy whistled. "Nice one."

"Arsenal!" Thea said indignantly. "Watching threats is _your_ job!"

"Computers aren't my thing, okay?" Roy said. "If you want a real nerd to sub in for Felicity, go speed up recruitment."

Oliver ignored this. " _GA?_ " he repeated dubiously, reaching for another arrow.

A single rifle shot rang out from the rafters, catching one of the robbers in the arm. "Well," Diggle said, reloading his sniper rifle with remarkable calm, given the gunfire clanging off the railings beside him, "that's what happens when you choose a code name that might actually kill me by the time I finish saying it. So get used to it, _GA_."

Oliver had to smile. "Noted, _Freelancer_."

Diggle scoffed at his old ARGUS codename. "You are _not_ picking the names around here," he said. "Now, for the love of god, can we finish up here so the newbie father won't miss his kid's first ultrasound?"

* * *

Felicity shifted in her chair, finding it remarkable that humanity had invented a seating apparatus capable of being simultaneously cold and perpetually uncomfortable, no matter how she sat.

"Gotta admit," she said, to no one in particular, "I was expecting to be in a paper gown and not wearing my underwear right about now."

Dr. Yeung — who was _very_ used to Felicity's awkward babbles and double entendres at appointment-time — looked up from her notes with an understanding smile. "Relax, Felicity, we'd only be using the probe if it was an early ultrasound, and you're around eight weeks along. It's the perfect time to get a good look at your baby."

"Right," Felicity said, her eyes darting nervously around the room. "So when do the weirdly vivid sex dreams start? Tell me now so I have something to look forward to, you know, after barfing up my insides."

"There's no definitive timeline for dreams," Dr. Yeung said, patting her reassuringly on the knee. "Women report having vivid sexual dreams as early as their first trimester, and throughout their pregnancy."

"Oh." Felicity privately wondered if it was appropriate to ask her doctor if the having-of sex dreams was remotely related to the amount of sex being had in real life. Because abstention had _not_ been a thing in the recent weeks. Not even remotely.

But Dr. Yeung — probably in possession of a regular sense of restraint — had other concerns. "I'm afraid we're going to have to start soon, Felicity," she said apologetically. "Is the father going to join us?"

Felicity sighed. "He's always late," she answered, reaching for her phone. "I'll text him."

"Oh, you can take calls in this office — it's no problem."

Felicity shook her head, already tapping out a new message to Oliver, which read something along the lines of _FREAKED OUT AT DOCTOR'S OFFICE, COME QUICK_ (she'd only used three emojis — nothing fancy).

"It's not that," she said. "Oliver doesn't really take calls when he's working — well, actually — I don't let him. It's a safety thing…staying alive…that whole _she-bang_."

She didn't doubt that Dr. Yeung, who'd probably watched the news at some point, knew which _work_ she meant. "That, and a baby," she remarked, pulling one of the machines to the side of Felicity's chair. "Must be tough on the both of you."

"Well, we have two friends who did pretty much the same thing," Felicity said, thinking of Diggle and Lyla. "Oliver and I both figure that if we get to like _seventy-five_ percent of what they did, we're good."

Dr. Yeung crinkled up her eyes in a smile. "I'm sure you'll both do a fantastic job," she agreed. "But maybe we should sta—"

The door banged open, making them both jump. Oliver, whomercifully looked like he was still in one piece, closed the door behind him like he'd just strolled in normal-person style, not even slightly out of breath.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, crossing over to give Felicity a quick kiss on the cheek. "Traffic was terrible around Fifth and Nelson."

"That robbery at Sterling Bank must have really clogged things up," Felicity agreed, wondering if Dr. Yeung could smell the C4 on the father of the baby, or whether she thought he'd just rolled through a Korean barbecue on his way up to the doctor's office.

"Better late than never." Dr. Yeung accepted all this with a remarkably straight face. "Why don't you have a seat, Mr. Queen, and we'll get started."

Oliver took the chair she indicated, taking Felicity's hand and squeezing it in a silent apology. She was unashamed to say that she felt a lot better about having him beside her, just in case there was bad news.

_Please don't let there be bad news._

"You okay?" Felicity asked, visually checking him for blood — both his, and others. She brushed a bit of pale grit from his jaw — powdered concrete? — but apart from that, there was nothing too alarming.

Oliver nodded quickly. "I'm so sorry I'm late, I had to—"

"—be a hero," she finished for him, and dropped a kiss onto the back of his hand. "Wouldn't be you if you stopped trying to save the world."

They smiled at each other, uncompromisingly them — even as prospective parents. But the unconventional had to be _normal_ every now and then, and Felicity held Oliver's hand tight when Dr. Yeung squirted a dollop of pleasantly warm gel onto Felicity's exposed abdomen and began to rub the transducer across her belly.

Between the weird underwater submarine sounds and the fuzzy black picture undulating on the screen, Felicity wasn't sure what she was meant to be focusing on. She ended up watching her doctor instead, noting each blink, each shift in her facial expression as if it would tell her if there was bad news.

Dr. Yeung just looked concentrated, tapping on the keys of the machine as she flicked between one murky picture and the next. After a few long minutes, she seemed to realize that both Oliver and Felicity were staring nervously at her, and broke into an encouraging smile.

"It's a viable pregnancy," she confirmed.

Felicity released her pent-up breath in a single gasp, and Oliver laughed — a sound that was as relieved as it was happy — turning to kiss her forehead and cheeks while she clutched at his hand, at a loss for words.

Dr. Yeung was still talking, making a game effort at explaining the fuzzy shapes to two stunned-with-relief adults who were barely capable of concentrating.

"That's a heartbeat…see how it pulses?" she said, pointing with her free hand at the screen. "There's a sac, and the placenta —"

Felicity _did_ see, now that Dr. Yeung had pointed it out. The baby's heartbeat was a small black smudge with a pale gray shape at its heart, growing and shrinking again with each pulse. She laughed again, a small flutter of disbelief, because their baby was _real_ — their baby had a heartbeat. It wasn't just a hand over her belly during the quiet moments of the day, wondering if their baby boy or girl was sleeping, dreaming…

Now she knew. They were going to be parents, for real, and she couldn't wait. Felicity leaned her head against Oliver's, glad — so glad — that they were okay.

"Thank you, Felicity," he murmured, stroking her hair.

Felicity kissed him lightly on the nose. "Takes two to clap, Oliver Queen — half that staticky smudge is yours, you know."

Oliver laughed into her hair, and in their unbelievable relief — they nearly missed what the doctor said next.

"And if I move over here… _there's_ the other heartbeat," Dr. Yeung continued, calmly indicating a second black smudge.

Felicity _swore_ she felt her heart stop, if only for a second, because what were the odds? And more importantly —

_What the ever-loving frack?_

"There's the second sac over there…oh — it looks like they're not sharing a placenta…" Dr. Yeung seemed oblivious to the fact that neither of the parents-to-be had moved a muscle for an unnaturally long time. Felicity's hand was over her mouth, but Oliver was the one who spoke first.

Well, he tried to.

"We're…" he began, sounding just as shocked as she was — if she'd been able to speak. "We're having…"

Dr. Yeung was once again unfazed by the dropped jaws. "Two babies," she said, tapping the screen at both spots to show them. "Non-identical, by the looks of it. We won't be able to tell the sexes until your next ultrasound, but that's something to look forward to, isn't it?"

Felicity found her voice, and she sat forward, sounding nothing like herself. "You're sure," she said. "You're sure that it's…"

Dr. Yeung nodded, beaming at them. "Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Queen — you're having twins."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOOM. Such a relief to get this off my chest, you have no idea how long I've had this planned.


	87. News

" _Twins?_ " Felicity repeated, hunching over her belly, careless of the gel still smeared around her midriff — because all she could think about was the amount of blood and mucus and… _stretching_ that came with two babies simultaneously trying to get out of her _very_ ill-equipped frame.

Dr. Yeung was in the process of tucking their ultrasound pictures into a small envelope. "That's right," she said, making a note on the flap. "These things often run in families, do either of you —"

Oliver shook his head mutely. "Never."

"My mom told me we had a cross-dressing cousin in New Orleans, but she _never_ mentioned twins," Felicity said through her hands, her eyes wide and unseeing.

The doctor's expression had gone full-blown placation, in the vein of _now, now — let's not lose our marbles here_ (little late for that one).

"The odds of having a multiple birth are roughly three percent, even less without the help of fertility drugs or in-vitro," she explained, in very slow and comforting tones. "Non-identical twins means that two eggs were released and fertilized at two separate times, resulting in two babies."

Felicity shot Oliver a semi-guilty look, because — as unscientific as it was — she couldn't help but think it would have taken a decent-to-excessive amount of sex to get both buns in the oven — so to speak.

But somehow it didn't seem like a constructive question to ask her doctor.

"I'm here if you have any questions about multiple births — now, or once you've…processed the news. Twins can come as quite a shock to new parents."

Felicity made a high-pitched noise, because _shock_ didn't even begin to cover it. She was also aware that she was a successful, Ivy-League-educated young woman and Vice President of a multibillion-dollar tech company.

But in the scheme of the mini-panic attack she was having, she had no interest in rephrasing her question to make herself sound like less of an idiot.

"How are they going to get out?" she asked. "Do uteruses have _yield_ signs to stop baby traffic jams? What if they both try to get out at the same time? Do they smoosh? What happens if the babies smoosh?"

"Babies don't smoosh, Felicity," Dr. Yeung answered, patting her on the calf, which was about as far as she could reach. "As for the method of delivery, we'll have to make an assessment closer to your due date, which is…" She checked the screen, "around mid-February, I'd say. Most mothers do manage to deliver twins naturally, but we could discuss a scheduled c-section, if you have concerns —"

Oliver was already shaking his head, well aware of Felicity's _no sharp objects_ rule. "Nuh-uh," Felicity said, vehemently turning her head from side to side, while simultaneously trying to back up on the slippery chair (spoiler alert: it didn't go very well). Oliver had to grab onto her arm to stop her from toppling right over and breaking some _very_ expensive ultrasound equipment.

"No operations — no scalpel," she swore. "I'm going to get high on laughing gas and pop those babies out _au naturel_ , I don't care how much it stretches."

If Dr. Yeung was amused by Felicity's overly zealous declaration, she had the good grace not to show it. "Felicity, your birth canal will stretch — that's how babies are born. But the elasticity means your body will be back to normal some time after the delivery. Now, I'm going to give you some leaflets to take home about your second and third trimesters, and — of course — the birth, and you can call me about any more questions you have."

She smiled at them both. "You're young and healthy," she said,evidently trying to reassure two mildly shell-shocked adults before releasing them into the streets of Starling. "This may not be a strictly professional opinion, but if the both of you can handle even _half_ of the things I've read about on the news, two babies is nothing to worry about."

Felicity breathed in, breathed out. "Thanks, doc," she said weakly. "So…what are the chances I can get a pre-emptive hit of that laughing gas? Just to give me something to look forward to."

Dr. Yeung laughed like she'd said something intentionally funny, and sent them on their way.

* * *

The stifling humidity of the warm July evening hung oppressively over their heads, and the opaque sky rumbled with the prospect of an approaching thunderstorm by the time Oliver closed Felicity's apartment door behind him.

Felicity half-stumbled out of her shoes, dropping her keys and bag clumsily on the counter before she wandered towards the kitchen. The heat and the general surprise of the news meant that the ride home had been unusually silent, and Oliver followed Felicity into the kitchen — still trying to decipher exactly _what_ his feelings were at the prospect of two children.

"I need a drink," Felicity declared, sagging against a cabinet. "Like a _really_ big drink. I'm talking _bucket_ -sized, because that's the only way I'm going to be pushing two babies out of…"

She gestured mutely in a downwards direction, apparently unable to articulate the rest of the sentence. Oliver hastily filled a glass with cold water and pressed it into her hands, and Felicity practically sucked it all down in one go, gulping so fast that he watched her apprehensively for signs of choking.

The empty glass slammed onto the countertop, and Felicity pressed the back of her hand to her mouth.

"That," she said, "did _not_ help."

Oliver found himself leaning on the counter behind him for support, a familiar habit from all those nights at Felicity's apartment after the Foundry — the two of them sharing a quiet drink at the end of the day.

Felicity had been the one who listened, then. She'd listened to his fears about the Bratva — what it might have meant for Starling City — always there, always for him. In a moment as understated as it was overdue, Oliver realized that the unexpected news wasn't about him, and the only reaction that mattered most was hers — Felicity's. Because she would be bearing the brunt of the pain and the exhaustion, and as brave as he knew she was, she had to be so, incredibly afraid.

Oliver knew what he wanted to do. He crossed the narrow space between them — two steps, all there was — and wrapped his arms gently, carefully, around Felicity. She gave a muffled little gasp, but her shaking hands gripped his shoulders and he felt the heat of her flushed face pressed to the pulse at his throat.

It was all they needed. The simple reminder that it was the two of them, that it always had been, and always would be.

After what felt like a long silence, Felicity sniffed quietly and brushed her lips across his jaw. "I'm okay, Oliver," she said. "I am, I just…"

Oliver shook his head, stroking her hair. "It's okay, Felicity, you don't have to —"

"—I _do_ ," she insisted, her voice low and shaking. "I need to tell you this — and you need to hear it, Oliver. I am so, _so_ happy to be having your children, and I don't know why I'm so scared — scratch that, I do know. The actual birth is going to hurt, and I am _scared out of my mind_ that I'm going to be pushing two Smoak-Queen babies out of my _wherever_ in seven months. But it's the good kind of scared — like when I'm holding your hand and we're about to do something so insanely stupid — whether it's jumping out of windows or falling into pits or diving face-first into the sea in the middle of a thunderstorm. Which, now that I'm saying it, doesn't sound like an A-plus attitude for to-be-parents to have, but that's _us_ , and I wouldn't change it for anything in the world. We're having twins, and we're not going to know what the frack we're doing, but I'm ready for it as long as you're with me."

Felicity inhaled sharply, out of breath and unsteady on her feet from talking so quickly, but Oliver had her — he'd always had her.

"So that's what I'm feeling right now," she concluded shakily. "What about you?"

"Honestly?" Oliver made a sound that might have been a laugh. "I'm terrified. We're having two babies at the same time — that means we're going to have our hands full, and it's not going to be easy —"

"—if this is some kind of pep talk, I'm going to seriously reconsider your presence in the delivery room —" Felicity muttered.

"— _but_ ," Oliver said, sliding his hands into Felicity's hair and cupping her face in his broad hands, "I do know two things."

Felicity bit her lip, the faintest suggestion of a smile on her face. "That had better not be some kind of twin-related pun."

Oliver laughed for real. "It's not," he said. "I promise."

"Tell me," she whispered.

Oliver looked very carefully into her eyes, watching every shift, every minute change in her expression. "I know that we can handle anything that comes our way — because they're our children, because we'll love them, because you'll be their mother and you will be… _amazing_ with them."

His voice softened, and he stroked her cheeks with his thumbs. "As amazing as you are with Connor, because you have a light inside of you that touches every single person you meet, and our children will love you for it."

Felicity's hands were around his wrists, and she shut her eyes briefly — as if in gladness — before they fluttered open again.

"And the second thing?" she asked.

Oliver touched his forehead to hers, holding the secret they both already knew. "I love you, Felicity. You're giving me everything I've ever wanted, and I don't know what I ever did to deserve you, but I am so _unbelievably_ grateful that I walked into your office four years ago."

Felicity's breath left her in a small, surprised laugh, a sound Oliver loved to hear. "Carrying a laptop — with bullet holes — and the first lie you ever told me."

"Such a bad liar," Oliver agreed, their faces drawing closer still — noses touching, cheeks brushing — the small wordless gestures of two people about to kiss.

But it was still a rush of sweetness when it came, and Oliver was only surprised when Felicity raised herself on tiptoes and slipped onto the kitchen counter, pulling him by the front of his shirt to stand between her open knees.

"Felicity," he said, pulling back to give her a look. "Now?"

Felicity nodded enthusiastically, brushing her hair behind one ear and tugging on his belt buckle. " _Now_ ," she insisted. "If I'm going to push two babies out of me, this —" she jabbed a thumb downwards "—is going to be out of commission for a while. So the next seven months are going to make up for that potential deficiency, and I'm going to need you to pull your weight."

Oliver grasped Felicity by the shoulders, gently, but firmly holding her back. " _Potential_ deficiency," he said. "It's the hor—"

Felicity stopped him with a hand over his mouth. "—say the word _hormones_ and I will kill you, Oliver Queen," she warned. "Which — now that I say it out loud — kinda validates your point, but I don't care, and you're going to sex me up _real_ nice, or I'm going to get creative. And I _know_ how much it bugs you when you get left out, so am I going to have to do this on my own, or are you —?"

As if there had ever been a choice.

Oliver dropped his hands to her hips instead, and all it took was the smallest of pulls to slide her straight off the counter and into his arms. Felicity yelped and clutched at his shoulders in surprise, but it quickly turned into a laugh when she realized what he was doing. "No, you won't," he said firmly, and kissed her smiling mouth.

Felicity returned it with enough eagerness to press Oliver into the countertop behind them, and the back of his head collided against one of the high cabinets with a solid thud.

"Sorry!" she gasped, when he winced. "Does it hurt?"

Oliver shook his head. "Not enough to stop," he said, already relocating the conversation towards her open bedroom door.

They were in the hallway when Felicity paused, and leaned back to study him as if she'd had a thought. "Do you think the double baby bombshell is the universe's way of telling us we have too much sex?" she asked.

Oliver took care not to let Felicity's head bump on the lintel when he carried her through to the bedroom. "Says the person who didn't want to wait until we got to the bed," he pointed out, laying her down on the mattress and beginning the familiar process of undressing his wife.

"And you seem _very_ not-okay with that," Felicity said sarcastically, lifting her hips so Oliver could peel the jeans from her legs.

Oliver kissed her belly, making her laugh. "No choice to make."

They were mostly in darkness by then, the only light coming in from the hallway and the bluish twilight outside the windows. The only sounds were the creaking of the mattress springs and the whisper of clothes dragging across skin, soft breaths and softer kisses, maybe the distant rumble of thunder neither of them quite minded.

It was a warm night, and Felicity's fingertips were soothingly cool on Oliver's face as she searched for his lips in the dim light. He turned his head and nipped lightly on her knuckle, and Felicity's mouth quickly found his — pulling him towards her for a long, lazy kiss in the middle of their bed.

"But you're happy?" she asked, and Oliver knew what she meant.

Oliver nodded. "As long as you are," he answered, because it was past time he stopped coming first.

Much later, it struck him as a joke Felicity would have found very, very funny.

* * *

Felicity reached down to disentangle the underwear snagged around her ankle, completely forgotten in their hurry to celebrate the news (or use it as one of the many reasons to get each other's clothes off). She wiggled her foot loose and tossed the pair of panties towards the open laundry hamper by the door, before groping around the loose sheets for any other lurking articles of neglected clothing.

Her search turned up a pair of boxers, a bra, one lone sock —

The covers rustled, and Oliver's bare chest pressed suddenly against Felicity's naked back. She jumped slightly at the unexpected heat of his skin, but the surprise quickly faded when he tracked kisses across her neck and shoulder — sleepy, satisfied kisses that made her smile in the warm afterglow of some very, very good sex.

"Leave it," he murmured, resting his chin on her shoulder.

Felicity made a game attempt to toss the discarded clothes towards the hamper — one that missed completely and made them both fall back onto the pillows, snickering like idiots.

"Shut up," she said, trying to catch her breath. "I'm too distracted to aim."

Oliver chuckled sleepily and pulled her close. "Distracted by what?" he asked.

Felicity had plenty of answers for that one. From the impressively muscled arm Oliver had behind his head, to his other hand roaming unseen beneath the sheets, making aimless patterns in her skin, _and_ the ridiculously defined muscles that made up his upper body, along with pretty much everything else — she couldn't decide.

Except that Oliver Queen was made to be a distraction, and he was hers, all hers. The thought made Felicity nuzzle at his throat, biting gently on his ear. " _Everything_ ," she whispered. "And I'm not ready to share."

Oliver stroked her cheek with his fingertips. "You know I'm not good at sharing either," he said. "I want my beautiful wife all for myself."

Something about Oliver saying _I want_ and _you_ in the same sentence had Felicity considering realistic refractory periods and the logistics of clambering on top of Oliver when every joint in her body felt uselessly lazy.

But that could wait. They had seven-ish months, and tonight could just be about what came after.

"So," Felicity said, her chin on his chest.

Oliver toyed absently with the loose curls spilling past Felicity's face, staring up at the ceiling of her bedroom and evidently having the same thought. "Twins," he said, like he still couldn't quite believe it.

"I know," she agreed. "I thought we'd have all the time in the world to screw up one kid at a time, but now…that's two of them messed up for life."

Oliver made a sound of disagreement. "Felicity," he said. "You are _not_ your mother. I know you'll never sit our babies down at a bar and feed them nachos."

"I _knew_ I was going to regret telling you that story," Felicity muttered. "You do realize that we're going to have to _tell_ people about this, right? And I can just see my mom jumping up and down, Cisco making _The Shining_ references to creepy twin girls, Barry coming up with weird theories about twin telepathy or whatever —"

"— Dig and Roy making a bet over us," Oliver joined in, counting off his fingers. "My sister suggesting names, Ray coming up with an invention that might _kill_ us if we try to use it…"

"You never know — the invention might be a self-emptying diaper genie," Felicity suggested. "Worth a couple of explosions for that."

Oliver snorted. "Not a chance."

"Twins means we'll need a second bedroom — eventually," Felicity said. "They can't share forever, that's just positive encouragement for them to start scheming against their innocent parents."

Oliver threw her a look. "You've been watching too many movies with Barry and Cisco."

"And you haven't seen enough of them." Felicity rolled onto her back with a blissful sigh. "I'm going to eat so much Italian, our kids are going to come out speaking parmesan cheese and _penne arrabiata_."

"Am I cooking in this scenario?" Oliver asked conversationally, running his hand up the slight curve of Felicity's belly.

"Almost exclusively," she promised, but looked down at her stomach glumly. "But two babies means I'll get fat — like _really_ fat. That is _not_ going to be an ego trip."

Oliver could obviously tell where the conversation was going, because he threw the sheets back and began to work his way down Felicity's squirming body with wet, exaggerated kisses. "Don't care," he insisted. "As long as you'll have me — nothing's going to change."

Felicity knew enough about guys to have some pretty massive doubts about the continued accuracy of that statement, especially when she'd lose her waist and become all curves — and not in the good way. "You say that _now_ ," she said breathlessly. "But when I'm waddling around in heels and can't fit into any of my old clothes…"

Oliver raised his head from her navel. "Don't care," he repeated.

Felicity raised herself on her elbows, giving Oliver her best dubious look. "Stretch marks."

"Don't care."

"Grumpy all the time. Sweaty."

Oliver was smiling. "I've seen you in the mornings."

Felicity kicked her foot in mid-air. "Swollen ankles."

"Don't," Oliver said against her inner thigh, "care."

"Hyperactive bladder. Heartburn. Cramps."

Oliver's only answer was to make Felicity arch under his mouth — his gorgeously talented mouth. "Don't care," he said, as she lay panting on the bed. "You're carrying our children and I love you all the more for it. You being happy — that's what matters to me."

Felicity wanted to smile — she really did — but teasing Oliver was an irresistible temptation, and she raised her arms over her head instead, shooting her husband a look of unmistakable challenge. "I'm gonna hold you to that," she said. "Sure you're not going to back down?"

Oliver looked more than okay with being teased. "God, yes," he said, and Felicity gave a hoarse gasp when he bent his head to her again.

* * *

Felicity heard an ominous thud from the direction of the kitchen, along with what sounded like Roy swearing _very_ profusely.

"Ah, Saturday night dinners," Thea said, who was obviously familiar with the muffled sound of her boyfriend's curses. "Isn't it nice when the guys cook?"

"Should we help them?" Felicity asked worriedly, even though her presence in the kitchen would probably turn the slight hiccup into a full-blown derailment.

Lyla waved a hand, adjusting the temperature of the air conditioning. "They'll be fine," she promised. "Oliver and John both cook — Roy won't be able to do much damage."

"You've obviously never seen him try to make soup," Thea muttered. "Roy Harper can lift a wallet off a professional con-man, but anything with a stove means blistered fingers and a _lot_ of extra dollars in the swear jar. Oh — incoming, Lyla."

 _Incoming_ was John and Lyla's adorable daughter, soon to become big sister to another little girl. Sara was full-on walking now, and made her way towards her mother in a surprising hurry, like her toddler radar had honed in on a pack of gummy bears (her weakness).

"Mommy, _up_ ," she said, holding out her arms with a look of pure Diggle-Michael resoluteness on her tiny face.

For someone who was five months' pregnant for the second time, Lyla was remarkably willing to add the weight of a two-year-old to what she was already carrying, and reclined on the couch with her daughter in her arms.

Felicity watched all this with more than a little admiration. "You," she said, "are a saint."

"Agreed." Thea was sitting on the floor by Felicity's knee, snapping pictures with a small camera. "Mom of the century."

Lyla smoothed a hand over her belly with a smile. "I don't think Sara understands that I won't have much of a lap in a few months," she said ruefully. "She's taking all the time she can get — aren't you, sweetie?"

Sara had a kiddie cup of iced tea and was sucking on a striped straw with visible relish. "Uh-huh. Me mommy."

"The kid has sass," Thea said approvingly, crouching in front of little Sara. "You excited to be a big sister?"

Lyla narrowly rescued the cup before Sara dropped it, in favor of reaching for the camera around Thea's neck. "Wassat?" she asked, yanking on the cord. "Wassat?"

Thea looked around at them over Sara's head. "I guess that's a maybe."

"Is that Cisco's camera?" Felicity asked, passing Lyla a tall, sweating glass of iced tea in exchange for Sara's plastic cup.

"Optical storage unit, apparently," Thea said sarcastically. "I'm also supposed to send him the photos. I think he wants to make you guys a scrapbook — _How the Justice League was Formed, a Fanboy's Perspective_. Not sure how it works if there's a surprising number of pregnant women in these pictures."

Lyla and Felicity both laughed. "I don't think that's going to stop Cisco," said Felicity, pointing at the picture the Diggles had framed over the fireplace. "Thunderstorm and impending war are literally no biggies for him."

Thea squinted at the photo. "We might need to take a better picture at some point," she said. "Y'know, one where we're all dry and indoors?"

"I like it," Lyla said, smiling up at the frame. "It's very _us_."

"Speaking of _us_ ," Thea said, scooting over to sit by Felicity's knee. "How's my idiot brother treating the mother of his children? Please tell me he's getting you something shiny for pulling double duty."

"A diamond necklace just for Moscow is enough, thank you _very_ much," Felicity said, still discomfited at the idea of anything priceless being in her possession. "Besides — there's no way we could have planned having twins."

"Didn't stop Roy and Dig from betting on it," Thea said under her breath.

Felicity blinked. "They _what?_ "

* * *

" _Dammit_ , Oliver," Diggle said, slapping a ten-dollar bill into Roy's waiting hand. "You just _had_ to prove me wrong, didn't you?"

"Told you it was gonna be twins," Roy said smugly, pocketing the money.

Oliver slammed the oven shut after checking on the lasagna, straightening up to shoot both his friends a moderately dangerous look. "You _bet_ on twins?"

Diggle chuckled, dicing tomatoes and cucumbers for the salad. "That's not all we bet on, Oliver."

"Yeah —" Roy was attempting to one-handedly manipulate a garlic press "—we have a bet on how long you'll both last before begging us to babysit."

Diggle raised his hands in a silent _don't-shoot-me_ when Oliver glared at him. "Hey, I'm betting _on_ you, Oliver," he said. "Twenty bucks that you and Felicity last one year. Do _not_ make me pay Roy that kind of cash. He's a very bad winner."

Roy crushed more garlic with a wet squelch, looking unconcerned at contradicting Diggle's statement. "I'm the worst," he agreed. "But I'm also free to babysit the two minions when the power couple folds like a house of cards."

"What makes you think we can't handle it?" Oliver demanded, mildly affronted that someone he'd trained had such a low appraisal of his abilities.

Roy shrugged, like it was obvious. "Felicity's a genius, and dating your little sister means that I get dirt on you — including the numerous occasions a young Oliver Queen raised _hell_ for his poor, unsuspecting parents. Combine _genius_ and _natural troublemaker_ DNA into a pair of twins and you get—" He made an explosive gesture with his only free hand, nearly spraying Diggle and Oliver with bits of garlic.

"—trouble," Diggle translated, and his hand descended on Oliver's shoulder — in what was clearly meant to be some kind of reassurance. "But I believe in you, man. I've seen you take on four League assassins at the same time — the Green Arrow can handle two kids."

Oliver rolled his eyes and turned to sprinkle salt and pepper over the artichokes slow-roasting on the stove.

"Question," Roy said, crouched in front of the oven and staring at the spinach-and-mushroom lasagna baking inside. "Do you think that hiding all those vegetables under some cheese is going to distract Felicity from the fact that she's eating something healthy for a change?"

Oliver was busy browning Italian sausage in a pan. "Besides chili, the one thing Felicity's been craving all week is spinach," he said, tossing in the garlic, "and I am _not_ questioning it."

Diggle passed him the broccoli rabe. "Definitely Queen DNA, then," he said. "Can't wait until she starts craving kale — then I've really seen everything."

"We're both _very_ excited," Oliver answered sarcastically, tipping the vegetables in with the sausage. "Can one of you set the table? Dinner's in five minutes."

"Top ten things Oliver Queen would never say," Roy intoned, pulling plates from the cabinet. "Marriage and kids really changed you. If you don't threaten to kill me slowly and painfully — I think I might lose my jaw."

Oliver reached for the knife Diggle had been using to cut up vegetables, flicking it into his hand with a menacing gleam. "Keep it," he said, very seriously.

"There he is," Diggle declared, smoothly catching a plate before Roy dropped it on the floor.

Felicity's mouth watered at the smell of delicious home-cooked Italian food, which was confusing, because a _lot_ of what she saw was green. Albeit smothered in cheese, but still green.

" _Sneaky_ ," she murmured, giving Oliver a kiss on the cheek as soon as he'd put down the lasagna.

Oliver was busy folding his apron — which was a _whole_ other distraction in itself (Oliver in an apron, _mm_ ). "I don't know what you're talking about," he said innocently.

Their whispered conversation showed every sign of turning in a less-than-appropriate direction, until a breadstick glanced off Oliver's arm and landed on the tablecloth.

" _PG-13_ ," Thea reminded them exasperatedly, in the middle of setting up the tripod. "And not over the food, _please_."

"Sorry," they said simultaneously, but Felicity was pleased to hear that neither of them sounded particularly convincing.

Maybe that was why everyone looked particularly smug while they all turned in their chairs to face the camera. They didn't do photos a lot, but when they did, it was friends and family and a moment to remember.

"To eighteen years of joint birthday parties," Diggle said, his hand on the back of Lyla's chair.

"Or until they get too embarrassed to call you their parents," Roy added from across the table, which was also a very real possibility.

Felicity smiled at Diggle and Oliver, her two boys. "Two Queens and a Diggle," she said teasingly. "Haven't heard that one before."

"Eighteen years sounds good," Oliver agreed, his eyes very warm, because he knew they'd agreed on longer.

"I'm going to hit the timer now," Thea warned. "When that flash goes off, all of you had better be looking at the camera — not doing anything that might scar someone's little sister for life."

She glared particularly hard at Oliver, who had his impeccable _we-weren't-doing-what-you-think_ face on, a classic at parties with boring speeches and dark corners. It showed every sign of being a Queen sibling stare-down, and the food was getting cold.

"Thea," Felicity said, trying not to laugh, "get in here!"

The red light started blinking as soon as Thea pressed the button, and she rushed over to her seat beside Roy. Absolutely disregarding his sister's warning, Oliver leaned forward and hugged Felicity from behind. She leaned into his arms with a laugh, her head tipped to rest against his. "You're brave," she said.

Oliver's lips tickled her cheek. "I'm happy," he whispered, a secret they both knew, and it was why they had — ridiculously, unashamedly — wide smiles when the camera went off in a burst of white light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the fluff train keeps on chugging...
> 
> ONE WEEK UNTIL ARROW'S BACK! (There aren't enough exclamation points in the world for how excited I am)


	88. Finding a Home

It was the fifth house they'd seen, and Felicity could tell the realtor was getting tired. Even the promise of Oliver's abs beneath a fitted shirt wasn't enough to stop her cheeriness from flagging when her "what do you think?" was met with non-encouraging silence.

"Could we have a minute?" Felicity said apologetically, and Nancy sidled out the patio doors, already rummaging in her purse for a pack of nicotine gum.

"Well," she said, watching their realtor's pink blazer disappear through the bushes. "She's going to murder us. That, or send us a poltergeist."

Oliver looked tired too, and he sank into one of the window seats with a sigh. "I don't know what's wrong," he said, the quiet frustration evident in his voice. "It's a beautiful house."

"It's a _gorgeous_ house," Felicity corrected, indicating the oriel windows behind them. "But if it's not right — we'll keep looking."

"We've _been_ looking," Oliver said. "I think we should choose something."

"What — make an offer?" Felicity asked. "On this?"

Oliver lifted his shoulders. "It's a beautiful house, and you like it — that's enough for me."

Instead of answering immediately, Felicity chose to sit in Oliver's lap, resting an arm around his shoulders while she tipped her head back to consider the house — from the intricate moldings in every room, the jewel-colored lights falling across the rug on the first landing of the polished staircase, to the roomy oriel windows and red brick exterior.

It _was_ beautiful, but in a fixed, dollhouse kind of way, and Felicity shook her head. "No," she said decisively. "It's not enough."

"Felicity —"

She cut Oliver off with a quick kiss on the forehead. "I'm going to tell Nancy that we're putting the house hunt on ice for a while," she said. "It's not the right time."

"But —"

"I keep my promises, Oliver," she reminded him. "And this one matters to me — a lot. More than any house. I can wait — I want to wait, if it means we find a place we both love."

"What if there's no perfect house for us?" Oliver asked bluntly.

"There is," she said, as stubborn as he was. "Also, you should probably stay here while I talk to Nancy. She won't strangle a pregnant woman — I think."

It killed her to see the guilty expression on Oliver's face. " _Stop it_ ," she said, ducking her head to kiss him on the cheek. "Don't guilt me into getting a house that's not right for us. We are going to find a perfect place eventually, and it'll blow your mind when we do. Okay?"

Oliver didn't answer right away, which made Felicity up the enthusiasm factor by kissing him all over his face, growing steadily sloppier until he had to hold her back, smiling in spite of himself.

"You're going to hock me about this until I say yes, aren't you?" he asked.

Felicity modestly adjusted her glasses. "You know me," she said. "I'm a hocker. So is that an okay?"

Oliver nodded. "Okay," he said, but he still managed to make it sound like an apology.

Felicity slid off his lap and walked towards the glass doors Nancy had left half-open. "Be right back," she said, with a semi-successful wink.

Hopefully realtors weren't in the habit of leaving indecisive house-hunting couples stranded at rejected properties.

* * *

Felicity's heels sank through the damp grass while she wandered her way through the back garden in the search for their realtor. It'd rained that morning, and the greenery gleamed in the slow, gray light of the afternoon.

It wasn't a huge understatement to say that Oliver didn't like ghosts, which made sense — given the number of times said ghosts had come back to bite him. With a vengeance. Even with most of them left strictly in the past tense (or in super-max lockdown on inhospitable islands situated in the middle of the North China sea), it made sense that Oliver didn't want to start on somebody else's slate.

The obvious — too obvious — solution was to build their own house from scratch, but Felicity highly doubted that the reality of DIY home construction was as romantic as Ryan Gosling made it look in _The Notebook_. Neither of them would even know where to start, and even if they did, Felicity had a feeling that she wasn't quite getting to the crux of the problem.

Ghosts were everywhere, and most people never really bothered with them — shaky-cam horror movies notwithstanding. Then again, she and Oliver weren't _most people_. Especially with children on the way, Oliver seemed to want a real, clean start, and Felicity was honestly at a loss as to how she'd get one for him.

She racked her brain for an answer, but it ended up being a continuous loop of the word _ghosts_ inside her head.

Ghosts were history. Every house they'd been in felt haunted by someone else's past. Oliver didn't want that. He wanted a place that felt like it belonged to them…and their children. But it was difficult to lay other people's ghosts to rest, unless…

It hit Felicity, then, the answer she should have alighted on from the beginning. The only ghosts they could ever really put to bed were their own, and she just the place for that. It was definitely a risky prospect, and it meant having a lot of faith in the man Oliver was, instead of the one he'd been.

But Felicity had always believed in Oliver Queen.

So she strode up to Nancy — who looked like she'd gone through half a pack of nicotine gum in one go — and steeled herself to make a very odd request.

"Hi — Nancy," she said, smiling. "I was wondering if you could take us somewhere — just one last house."

Nancy consulted the roster of listings with a definite lack of enthusiasm. "I can show you another similar property, but I don't think —"

"Actually," Felicity interrupted. "I have another place in mind."

* * *

"Almost there," Nancy announced, having regained some of her previous perk. Maybe she — like Felicity — thought it was better to go all-out for one last shot than waste any more weekends meandering through houses that were most definitively _not_ it.

Oliver had been staring out the window while Nancy drove, his hand resting loosely around Felicity's on the car seat between them. Felicity watched him carefully for signs that he knew where they were heading, especially when a familiar grove of trees surrounded the car on a long, sloping driveway.

A frown wrinkled his forehead when he recognized the trees, and Oliver turned his head to shoot Felicity a questioning look. But the doubt evaporated almost instantly — because she'd never been good at hiding her thoughts — and was replaced by an incredulous expression that she'd known the whole time.

"Stop the car, please," he said.

They'd just made it through the gates, and Nancy was thrown. "But Mr. Queen —" she began.

" _Stop the car_ ," Oliver said, and the dangerous sharpness in his tone was enough to make Nancy hit the brakes.

The car halted with a screech, and Felicity winced at the seatbelt digging sharply into her chest.

"Oliver," she said, but he was already opening the door. " _Oliver!_ "

He was out of the car in an instant, and Felicity unbuckled her seatbelt in a hurry, sliding out of the car as well.

As angry as Oliver probably was, it didn't extend to making a pregnant Felicity chase after him. He was standing under a tree with his back to her, hopefully not because he was too furious to look her in the eye.

Felicity walked up to him. "Oliver, it's your family home," she said reasonably.

" _Was_ ," he stressed. "It _was_ — until my mother died and Isabel Rochev took the house. It's not my home anymore, and I can't believe you'd bring me back here."

Felicity disagreed. Not on the facts, but with the declaration. "It's been on the market for two years, and no one's ever made an offer to buy it," she said. "You didn't like the houses because they felt haunted to you — maybe that's why no one's ever taken the mansion. Probably because they know it still belongs to the Queens — whatever it says on the deed."

Oliver faced her, his face curiously still in the way it got when he was trying not to lose his temper. "You're right — I didn't like those houses," he agreed. "They're haunted by other people's ghosts — so what made you think that bringing me back here, of _all_ places, was a good idea?"

They were on the precipice of fighting with each other, and Felicity didn't like it. But disliking differences of opinion with Oliver was _not_ the same thing as avoiding them, because the one thing she'd always done was remind Oliver that there was another way, that there would always _be_ another way.

"Because they're your ghosts, Oliver!" she said. "They're _your_ ghosts, and you can — and you _have_ — laid them to rest. This is _right_ , Oliver. You're starting a family, a _Queen_ family, and the reason why we haven't been able to find a place of our own is because there already is one. We just weren't looking in the right place."

Oliver had a strange gleam in his eye. "This house," he said, "is where I was in love with Laurel. This house is where I lied — to almost everybody who ever mattered to me — Tommy, my sister, my mother. _This_ house is where I became the most selfish version of myself, the _worst_ version of myself — the one that didn't care who he hurt and the consequences of it, as long as everything was all right for Oliver Queen."

He took a breath, his chest heaving, and when he spoke, it was in a voice she'd only heard him use once before — when she and Diggle found him after Moira's funeral.

"This house," he said, and it nearly broke her heart to hear him, "is not the place for our children to grow up in. I don't want it to be — and that's final."

"I don't accept that," Felicity said, and surprise flickered across Oliver's face. She ignored it, and stepped forward, until they were almost touching, until she could look up into his face and tell him — everything.

"I don't accept that this place can't be where our children grow up," she said. "Just because their father made mistakes here, just because he was a different person, in a completely different time of his life. That's not a good reason to cut them off from part of their family history, just because there's some bad in it. You think I don't know your family? I stood in that living room while your mother told me that she knew how much I loved her son, and threatened me with the possibility of losing him — if I ever told anyone the truth about her daughter."

There was still a bitter taste in her mouth at the memory of Moira's steely pride, the near-contemptuous ease with which she cut into Felicity's heart and read the pieces like a mildly interesting book.

But Felicity took a deep breath, and looked at Moira's son, the love of her life, because it was time to lay that ghost to rest. "I know, Oliver, I know it's not all good. I know you see the lies, and loss, and guilt — but that's not all there is."

Felicity lifted her hands to Oliver's face, stroking his cheeks with nothing but tenderness for this scarred, complex man — the man she loved more than anyone else in the world. "I see the place where my husband learned to walk for the first time, where he read his first book, where he was loved, so loved, by his mother and father and little sister, where he made mistakes — yes — but learned from them. I see the reasons you chose to be who you are today, why you're the Green Arrow and Oliver Queen. I see _hope_."

She spoke in a whisper, because they were close enough — in more ways than one — for her not to need anything more. It was just the two of them standing between the trees on the grounds of Oliver's first home, a place she knew he had to miss, whether he realized it or not.

"Walk around the house with me," Felicity said. "Nancy won't come — it'll just be the two of us. If it doesn't feel right, then we'll leave. No more house hunting. We'll go back to my apartment — or yours — and make a new plan. Just one walk — that's all I want."

Felicity knew she'd gotten through to him when Oliver reached up to take her hands in his, brushing his lips across the back of her knuckles. "Okay," he said, quietly. "One."

* * *

Oliver didn't remember the last time he'd used his key to the mansion. He didn't remember the last time he'd stood on the doorstep to his childhood home — the place he'd spent most of his life in — and felt… _afraid_.

It wasn't fear of the house, or the memories it held, but that it might not feel the same, that it wasn't — and could never be — _home_ again.

The key turned smoothly in the lock, and the door swung open. The hinges squeaked — but they'd always squeaked a little, no matter how much his mother and father tried to fix it. It was just something about the frame, a little imperfection about the grand old house they'd learned to live with.

Oliver realized with a start that he was remembering — without hesitation, without volition. It just _was_. The memories came to him with startling ease, and the longer he stood in the foyer — surrounded by the dark wooden panels and older portraits — the more everything seemed to rush back, as if he'd never forgotten them to begin with. In the small space between heartbeats, Oliver almost felt like he could look up at the staircase and see his mother, holding out her arms to him with a warm smile.

But the landing was empty, and faded light swirled through the dusty stained-glass windows overlooking the sweeping staircase.

Oliver turned his head slightly, reaching for Felicity's hand. She seemed surprised that he wanted to touch her, but he felt her fingers squeeze lightly in answer, a silent reassurance that she was there for him.

She looked even more surprised when he smiled, because after years of being away — he still remembered the house tour his mother made him and Thea memorize, so they could show their guests around the Queen Mansion.

 _Now, Oliver, I know you haven't forgotten to point out the Curtis Swan on the far wall,_ she'd have said, in the tones of benevolent reprimand she'd had perfected for as long as he could remember.

"What?" Felicity asked. "What is it?"

Oliver shook his head, a little embarrassed. "My mother…she used to make Thea and I show guests around the house," he explained. "I guess I still remember the tour."

"So…does that mean you can show me around?" Felicity asked, slipping her arm through his. "Come out of tour guide retirement for your wife?"

Oliver kissed the back of her hand in answer. "Come on," he said. "The drawing room's this way."

* * *

"That's the tree Thea used to climb," Oliver said, pointing out an old, dark-wooded cherry tree — virtually indistinguishable in a row of others, but not to him.

"Go Thea," Felicity said, testing one of the knots on the trunk. It was barely larger than the palm of her hand, but had been perfect for his kid sister to use as a foothold on her way up the tree, much to their mother's displeasure that her daughter was getting herself grimy instead of learning French verbs.

The tour of the house had been rapidly sidetracked by the view of the grounds through the drawing room doors, and Oliver was easily more relaxed by the idea of showing Felicity the old gardens than the rooms.

He also suspected that she knew this, which was why she'd pointed out the gardens in the first place.

Oliver felt another small tug at his heart, because he hadn't thought it was possible to love Felicity any more than he already did, yet she always managed to surprise him with these tiny moments, the in-betweens of everything that showed him there was eternally something new to discover and love about his wife.

"Oliver, you're staring," Felicity said, showing every sign that she knew why. "Something on my face?"

They were on the old flagstone pathways beneath the trees, and Oliver wrapped his arm around Felicity, pulling her close so he could kiss the top of her head.

"Sneaky," he said, breathing the words against her hair.

Felicity was inspecting the overgrown rosebushes. "I don't know what you mean," she answered. "These flowers are _gorgeous_."

"I'll grow them for you," Oliver promised, before he could stop himself.

Felicity raised her eyebrows, her lips pressed tightly together as if to fight back a smile. "You'll grow them…here?" she said.

"S—I mean," Oliver said hastily, "I'll grow flowers for you — wherever we end up. Not — necessarily…here."

Felicity looked very amused by him speaking in her trademark sentence fragments, but she refrained from commenting on it and kissed him on the cheek instead. "I thought so," she murmured, and they walked on.

They were near the dried-up fountain when the sky gave an ominous rumble. Oliver had been so absorbed with seeing his old home again that he hadn't noticed the sky clouding deep gray from an approaching storm.

"Inside?" Felicity suggested, just as the stones around their feet showed dark spots from the first drops of rain.

"Good idea," Oliver said.

They hurriedly retraced their steps, but the drizzle became a downpour long before they made it back into the drawing room, and soaking them both by the time they made it through the doors.

Rain lashed furiously against the glass at Oliver's back. Beside him, Felicity pushed her hair away from her face and let it drip across one shoulder. "I think the last time I was this wet was our wedding," she gasped, wringing out her hair.

She paused while they both considered the statement.

"I _mean_ , the ceremony," she clarified. "In the rain. Not — after. Which wasn't in the rain."

They looked at each other for all of two seconds, and simultaneously broke into laughter. Oliver pulled Felicity close, smiling broadly at the memory of their wedding.

"I liked both," he said. "The ceremony, and _after_."

"Me too," she whispered back.

Her skin was covered in goosebumps, the thin material of her sundress soaked through from the rain. Oliver chafed at her arms to warm them, holding her to his chest while they stood at the windows, watching the rain course down the glass.

"It's so peaceful here," Felicity said, listening to the patter of the storm with her eyes closed.

Oliver didn't say anything, even though he agreed. The mansion was empty and it echoed with old memories, past loves and never-forgotten ghosts, but Oliver heard the important milestones too — all the laughter, kindness, and joy the house had been a part of — the Thanksgivings and birthdays and Christmases…

There was a kind of peaceful knowing that the past generations of the Queen family had left a legacy in these halls, and a _rightness_ in the prospect of returning home to continue that legacy. But in a different way.

A new generation.

Felicity stirred, lifting her head from his shoulder. "We should go soon," she said. "Nancy's waiting for us in the car."

Oliver knew he didn't want to go. But he was saved from answering when Felicity jumped — startled by the drapes stirring of their own volition, moved by some invisible draft.

"Oh god," she said, holding her chest and laughing nervously. "Sorry — too many horror movies — forgot where I was for a second."

Oliver felt a strange shiver of recognition at the sight, and he crouched by the doors, pulling the drapes aside to find something he was surprised he even remembered.

It was a small thin crack in the glass, whistling faintly from the wind outside, and Oliver ran his fingers across the spidering fracture, smiling faintly at the recollection.

"Let me guess," Felicity said, kneeling beside him. "You know what that is."

Oliver moved his hand away so she could see. "I was playing catch with Tommy," he said, glancing towards the foyer like his six-year-old-self was about to come racing through the doors with his best friend. "We weren't supposed to be playing indoors, but it was raining and we were bored, so we ended up throwing the ball around the house. I think… _I_ threw the ball, and Tommy missed it —"

Oliver broke off abruptly, searching the floor around him for a dent where the ball had ricocheted off the expensive floorboards, and he laughed for real when he found the uneven spot in the wood.

"It went bouncing off the floor right _there_ , and cracked the glass," he said, and his hand fell back to his side. "We were both so afraid our parents would find out — so we hid it behind the drapes and promised we wouldn't tell anyone."

The two of them had been terrified — all those years ago — but Oliver was grinning, replaying the memory over and over in his mind. "I can't believe it's still here," he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Sounds like a good day," Felicity said gently. "You and Tommy."

Oliver nodded. "Me and Tommy," he agreed.

When he looked up, Felicity was watching him with the softest smile on her face. The same smile she'd worn when saying her vows at their wedding, the same smile he'd seen after asking her to marry him, _the_ smile telling him with utmost certainty that she loved him, now and always. "So," she said. "Thoughts?"

Oliver reached for her hand, running his thumb over the smooth metal of her wedding band, warmed by her skin. "Thank you, Felicity," he said. "For bringing me back here. You were right."

Felicity's eyes glowed with humor. "A _thank you_ and a _you were right_ ," she said. "I should really be recording this, shouldn't I?"

"I don't say it enough," Oliver agreed. "And I know I'll be saying it a lot more for the rest of our lives — but for now…thank you. I thought that coming back here would…bring it all back. The things I couldn't bear to remember — because the mansion had too much history for me. But that's not what happened today."

Oliver lifted his head. "I remembered things with my family — my mother, my father, my sister, Tommy — good things, things I thought I'd lost. I used to think this house only had a history, but coming here today — with you — I realized something. It doesn't just have a past. It has a future too, and Felicity, I want to see what that future is. I want to _build_ that future — together."

"Oliver…" Felicity said, and he knew what she was about to say.

Not yet, because there was something else.

"But," Oliver said, and saw the surprise in her eyes when he got to his feet, pulling her up with him. "Before all of that — there's one last stop on the tour."

* * *

Of all the places Felicity imagined Oliver taking her, his old bedroom had _not_ been one of them.

" _No_ ," she said, a hand over her mouth. "Not Oliver Queen's bedroom."

Oliver shook his head at her teasing, and nudged the door open with his elbow. "After you," he said.

Felicity gingerly stepped inside, peering around at the corners like she was expecting something to jump out at her. Like the ghosts of old (and very angry) ex-girlfriends. "So _this_ is where it all began," she said, turning in a slow circle.

Oliver was leaning against the wall by the door, watching her take it in. The room had high ceilings and a ridiculously fancy brass overhead light fixture, along with a body-length window seat Felicity highly doubted the young Oliver Queen had used for reading, like — _ever_.

But it had been stripped of its furniture, except for — funnily enough — the bed frame, which had been built into the wood panels behind the headboard and looked utterly immovable without some serious destructive effort (oh, if only a sledgehammer were handy).

Suffice it to say the irony did not escape her. At all. "I feel like this should be part of a museum exhibit," she remarked, using her fingertip to wipe a streak of dust from the wood. " _Life of a Twenty-First Century Frat Boy_."

Felicity paused, and looked up at Oliver. "You sure I can't get an STD from breathing in this air?"

"Positive," Oliver answered, and Felicity laughed at the unintentional pun.

"Aside from the STD-related humor, is there a reason you're showing me your old room?" she asked, perching at the end of the creaky bed frame. "I mean — sure, I was curious, but I wasn't going to _ask_ to see it. Your history's very colorful…and pretty accessible through Google."

Oliver's expression was thoughtful. "I guess…I wanted you to be sure," he said. "If we buy back the mansion — it's my history you'll be taking on, more than ever. I wasn't a good person, and I don't ever want anything about this house to hurt you — especially not me."

Even though Oliver had basically just admitted that he wanted to live in the Queen mansion again (along with the rarely-heard combo of _you were right_ and _thank you_ ), Felicity kept a straight face (i.e. refrained from a fist-pump), because he was talking about something that genuinely worried him.

She was well — _well_ — aware that "Ollie" hadn't been a saint (there was a strong argument to be made for the word _douche,_ maybe even _jackass_ ). She knew that she was sitting in a room with plenty of history, not all of it good. He'd been with a parade of girls here, definitely Laurel and maybe Sara at some point (which was a whole species of weird all by itself), and there was definitely a part of Felicity that cared.

Cared a lot. Enough to think about setting fire to the room, bed frame and all — for both exorcism and hygiene reasons. Some part of her wondered if there was a black hole device that could turn the four walls into some kind of void. Another part wondered how much liquid concrete she'd need to fill up an entire room. A small, spiteful voice at the back of her head told her to walk out of the house and start fresh.

But outweighing the absolute douche young Oliver Queen had been was the knowledge that this Oliver — _her_ Oliver — deserved to return home. Home for real. Whether he'd realized it or not, returning to Queen Mansion — without lies, without secrets — was bringing his journey full circle. He was both hero and civilian, Green Arrow and Oliver Queen, living a life the old him never thought possible.

He was himself, the best version of himself, and Felicity wanted _that_ to be a first step in the rest of their lives together. Raising their kids in the mansion would link them to their father's past, but having the history around them didn't mean that they couldn't start on a fresh page.

It was something they'd both learned to do. Turn the past — as painful, or dark as it was — into something more. Something else.

Stronger, steadier, and maybe — just maybe — a little bit brighter.

Felicity took a deep breath, because she'd decided. "This may be the first time in the debauched history of Oliver Queen's bedroom that the words _come here_ haven't been followed by some kind of drunk kinky sex, but —"

"— it wasn't kinky —"

Felicity held out her hands. "Come here," she said, smiling.

A little hesitantly, Oliver joined Felicity on the dusty wooden frame of his old bed, and his confusion didn't lessen when she took his hands in hers and pressed them to her lips. "This house," she said quietly, "is a part of who you are. It's home to you, and that's what makes it home to me. All I want is for you to be happy…and burn the bed we're sitting on right now. _Maybe_ get a Rabbi in to bless the place."

Oliver huffed a laugh, which made Felicity smile. She touched her forehead to his, and her hand came up to caress the back of his neck. "Kidding. But the happy thing…that's what I care about. The person you were is not the person you are now, and the man I believe in — the man I _love_ — he deserves to come home for real. Whatever future, whatever legacy you want to build — I'm going to be right there with you, always."

" _Our_ legacy," he reminded her. "If we live here, it's going to be yours — as much as mine. Because you've always been home to me, Felicity, and I'll do anything to make you feel that way about this house."

Felicity grinned at the full-blown Smoak-ness of what she was about to say. "I can think of a few things _we_ can do," she whispered. "Although — it's technically just _one_ thing…many times. One thing all the time."

Oliver's lips brushed the corner of her mouth. "Really," he said, in a tone of voice that made it abundantly clear he knew the specificsto that _one thing_.

But before they got too carried away (and skirted dangerously close to the sex equivalent of _you break it, you buy it_ ) Felicity had to know for sure.

"So that's a _yes_?" she asked, her hands on his chest. "Are we making an offer?"

With the kind of surety that told Felicity more about Oliver's answer than words ever could, he took her face in his broad, warm hands and kissed her, in the middle of this vast, empty house, with rain coursing down the windows and thunder in the sky.

But he kissed her the way he had on their wedding day, and too many other times to count, a heady combination of gladness and hope and promise.

And Felicity couldn't help but think it was a beautiful, beautiful start.

" _Yes_ ," Oliver whispered, and just like that — it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Klarolicityswan, Pidanka, thanks for talking me into this :)
> 
> Also - I know the mansion burned down in Arrow 2.5 (pshhhh) but since it happened with Laurel and Oliver I've decided to pretend it didn't. Cuz reasons. :D


	89. Moving Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THREE MORE DAYS UNTIL ARROW, BABY *maniacal laughter*
> 
> Okay, so full disclosure, I'm super down with a cold right now and if anything comes across as weird in these chapters, blame all the Sudafed I'm taking. And the cough syrup. *shakes fist at cold germs*

August was _not_ a good time to be moving house. The boxy air-conditioning system in Felicity's apartment gave a protesting creak, clearly using the last vestiges of its life to churn out mildly cool air across the numerous open boxes littered across the living room — the contents of which were in various stages of "readiness".

Which was to say, not.

It wasn't that Felicity was _bad_ at packing. She was _great_ at the emergency Foundry procedures, grabbing what they needed and getting out before the SCPD could pull up, back in the days when they still had to be on the run from the police. But that was old news.

The closest she got to evacuations these days were the dependable bouts of morning sickness, which she couldn't _wait_ to wave off by the time she eased into her second trimester. Unfortunately, being three-ish-months pregnant (with twins!) didn't necessarily help speed things up, nor did the heat — unbeatable, even in a pair of shorts and the thinnest tank top she possessed, or resulting fact that she was constantly in the mood to snooze facedown in her (very unpacked) bed, not dig up old shoes from the back of the closet and fit them into boxes.

It was also hot. Did she mention it was hot?

Another curl escaped from the haphazardly clipped twist at the back of Felicity's head, falling in front of her eyes when she bent over to retrieve a stack of old _Economist_ s from the magazine nook beneath the coffee table. Felicity puffed the hair out of her face, which had about the same effect as asking Barry to actually chew his food for a change, or encouraging Roy to actually smile at someone for once.

In other words, not much.

The magazines went into a cluster of waiting trash bags, and Felicity was just sorting through her DVDs when a key turned in the lock, admitting a breath of oven-hot air that threatened to upset the hard-fought equilibrium of the failing AC system, and — more importantly — announced the arrival of lunch, in the form of takeout bags delivered by her husband.

"Bought Chinese," Oliver said, hooking his keys by the door. "The corner place didn't have chow mein, so I went to…"

He trailed off, obviously searching for a place to put down the food in the disastrous clutter that was Felicity's kitchen island.

A fact she hurriedly attempted to rectify, noisily shifting the mess of disassembled kitchen appliances and nameless utensils only Oliver ever used.

"The packing's going well," he remarked.

Felicity deposited a plastic tub of stainless steel _somethings_ onto a stool and leaned her elbow nonchalantly on the box, pretending like she wasn't out of breath after moving something from point A to B. " _So_ well," she agreed, and Oliver laughed, kissing her lightly on the cheek before setting their lunch onto the counter.

Being outside in ninety-plus-degree heat meant that Oliver was sweaty, but in the best way possible…at least to her overactive hormones. It was a combination of said hormones, Oliver's _very_ appealing build, and the aroma of hot chow mein that made Felicity stand on her toes — barefoot — and wrap her arms around her husband's neck so she could give him a real kiss.

"My _hero_ ," she murmured.

If Oliver was surprised by anything Felicity did (or touched) at this point, he had the good grace to go with it. The kind of good grace that left flushed faces, more hair escaping from Felicity's clip than ever, and had them teetering dangerously close to forgetting about the food.

"That's what I get for buying lunch?" he asked, his hands warm at the base of her spine.

Felicity nipped gently at his lower lip. "Gotta keep you on your toes somehow," she said, a line that felt fantastically flirtatious until her stomach gave an anti-climactic rumble, effectively killing the moment.

Oliver looked like he was trying not to laugh, and Felicity sighed, hanging her head briefly in mourning for dead romance. "Just FYI, that's when I remember I'm eating for three, and our babies do _not_ think that me kissing their father is a good reason to put off food."

Felicity had seen Oliver happy before. She was spoiled for choice, as far as a smiling-and-happy Oliver Queen was concerned, but whenever she talked to the unborn children in her belly (practicing the various mom-voices in her arsenal), she honestly thought his face was in danger of smile-induced damage.

Like watching his wife talk to her not-really-showing stomach was ridiculously cute, or something.

"They have ears," she said, snatching up a pair of chopsticks. "I'm _not_ being crazy."

Oliver didn't seem willing to let her go, and nuzzled at her throat, wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her closer. "I love you," he whispered.

Felicity pretended to squint dubiously at him. "Talking to me, or the babies?"

Oliver kissed her neck. "Both," he said in her ear, "but you first."

"G—"

Felicity's stomach gave another angry protest, and they broke apart in surprise, their laughter a mixture of exasperation and amusement. "Food?" she suggested.

"Food," Oliver said, and nudged what looked like a double portion of chow mein towards her.

Instead of digging in, Felicity rested her back against the kitchen island and tapped her chopsticks against her lips, eyeing Oliver with interest. "Do you think there's ever going to be a time we'll just — _stop_ — flirting with each other?" she asked.

Oliver appeared to consider the question, and a smile flickered across his face when he thought of the answer. But Felicity didn't have to wonder for long, because he leaned across the counter and kissed her — a soft, stolen kiss — adding in a murmur:

"God, I hope not."

This time, it was Felicity's face that was in danger of smile-induced breakage. "Good answer," she whispered.

* * *

Felicity lifted her head from Oliver's chest. The afternoon was proving to be sweltering, and the sluggish air-conditioning did nothing to cool the sweat on two very warm bodies.

"Maybe…it was a bad idea to help each other with the packing," she said, a suggestion that didn't hold much weight — given the trail of kisses she was currently marking along the smooth muscled line of Oliver's neck.

Oliver didn't seem to mind, coiling her hair lazily around his wrist while she explored, the two of them basking in the glow of a sleepy, summer afternoon. "We'll make it," he said confidently. "I do most of the packing once you've gone to bed anyway."

Felicity paused. "Really?"

Oliver turned his head on the pillow, shooting her a look that was as teasing as it was unintentionally arousing. "Can you blame me?" he asked, brushing his lips across hers. "You're a distraction."

"No, you're supposed to say that like it's a _bad_ thing," Felicity said, fighting to keep a straight face because her attempt at a seductive purr came off as _bad-head-cold_.

"Mm," Oliver said nonchalantly, and Felicity gave a muffled shriek when he pulled her onto him, pressing scratchy, playful kisses everywhere he could reach.

"Oliver — _Oliver!_ " she said, gripping the headboard to steady them both. "Packing. Neighbors. Heatwave. _So much packing_."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he answered, even though he definitely knew the _Reasons Not to Have Sex (Again)_ word association game. "But if I did — I'd say we're doing your neighbors — _our_ neighbors — a favor."

"How?" Felicity laughed. "By giving them a tabloid headline? _Green Arrow Annoys Frack Out of Neighbors, Can't —_ "

"— _Stop Fracking Wife?_ " Oliver suggested.

"I wasn't going to say it like _that_ ," Felicity mumbled, blushing furiously. "But _yes_. You're famous now — like, _good_ -famous, not _pees-on-paparazzi-_ famous. The Green Arrow's a symbol, and said symbol can't go around annoying the neighbors by feeling up his wife."

Oliver grudgingly sat up when Felicity slid off of him and towards the edge of the mattress, hunting around the floor for her clothes. "No one's seen me _feel up my wife_ ," he said, managing to add quotation marks to his sentence with nothing except dry sarcasm.

Felicity shot him a look over her shoulder, in the middle of re-fastening her bra. "Trust me, the sounds you make leave _very_ little to the imagination. They know you're feeling me up — a lot more than feeling up, if you know what I mean. Which of course you do, because you were there."

Oliver's fingertip burned a shivering line of heat down the curve of Felicity's spine. "You're one to talk," he said, in a voice that made the flush in her cheeks redder than ever.

"Never said I was quiet," Felicity reminded him. "Besides, look at it this way: we can go out for ice cream after we finish the living room."

Oliver stayed where he was, looking highly unconvinced. Felicity sighed, and swept her hair — her starting-to-annoy-her, too-long-for-this-heat mess of hair — across one shoulder, in preparation of dropping _the_ decisive move.

"The sooner we finish packing, the sooner we move out to the mansion," she said, and added (in case it wasn't already clear): "the _gorgeous_ , full-of-empty-rooms mansion with just the two of us, where _we_ can make as much noise as we want…anywhere, anytime."

It was actually hilarious — how willingly Oliver got dressed after Felicity laid out the steps to her moving plan, her not-at-all-subtle master strategy to get Oliver on his back in every room of their new house.

But he didn't need to know that just yet.

* * *

Oliver had two sundaes in his hands when he tracked Felicity down in the Parenting section of _Barnes & Noble_, her head bent over a thick book about babies.

For a moment, Oliver just watched her. He watched Felicity across the short length of an aisle — forgetting that he was even doing it. Because there was just something about Felicity…from the earnest way her eyes tracked the words across the page, how she nipped at her bottom lip as if to hold in a laugh, the restless shuffle of her sandaled feet — all little things that he'd seen countless times before, but still had the power to make him smile at how much he loved her.

Conscious of the ice cream slowly melting in their cups, Oliver shook himself and went towards his wife. Felicity looked up when he kissed her neck, sliding her finger between the book's pages to keep her place.

In a sundress and sandals, she had to stand on tiptoe to kiss him on the lips, and she did, smiling at him in the same sunny, generous way that made Oliver feel like they hadn't seen each other in months, not the fifteen minutes it had taken for him to get them ice cream.

"Always bringing me food," she teased. "That's why I love you."

"As long as it's you asking…" Oliver said, and held up her sundae. "Banana brownie, mint chocolate chip, extra whipped cream, no peanuts. Did I get it right?"

The extra kiss Felicity gave him was answer enough. "I'm surprised they even made this monstrosity for you," she said, scooping a generous helping of green-white ice cream straight into her mouth. "Did you have to flirt with the ice cream girl?"

"I tried," Oliver said, sticking a spoon into his own ice cream. "But _he_ wasn't very interested. So I told him I had a demanding, beautiful, and very pregnant wife."

"Excuse you," Felicity said, glancing down at the loose skirt of her white sundress. " _Moderately_ pregnant."

"My mistake." Oliver offered her a spoon of cinnamon chocolate in compensation. "Truce?"

Felicity crinkled her nose at him and slipped the book back onto its shelf. "Come on," she said, looping her arm through his. "I feel like walking tonight."

* * *

"Did you know," Felicity said, around a mouthful of mint-chocolate-banana ice cream, "that our babies have _fingernails_ right now?"

Oliver looked at his own fingers. "Do you feel them?" he asked, evidently imagining the babies clawing and scratching like some kind of bad horror movie that Felicity would totally have watched.

Which reminded her — popcorn.

Felicity shook off the momentary craving for a tub of buttered (and not at all healthy) popcorn, in favor of a snarky answer. "No, because not every baby turns into a wolverine _in utero_ ," she said. " _But —_ fun fact — they aren't at the _Fat and Cute_ stage yet. Apparently their eyes are still kinda on the sides of their heads."

"Well," Oliver said generously, holding out his spoon to her, "if they're anything like their mother — they'll turn out beautiful."

Felicity almost inhaled his ice cream. "Says the man who topped the list of _Sexiest Bachelors in Starling City_ three years running," she pointed out. "Compared to that, I'm a gnome. A glasses-wearing, blonde, _gnome_."

"You're not a gnome," Oliver said immediately. "I've seen photos of you as a baby, and you're —"

"You _what?_ "

"Your mom showed them to me as soon as she found out you were pregnant," Oliver said, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. "What's wrong?"

Felicity didn't have an immediate answer for him, other than the sudden impulse to call her mother and demand that all remaining baby pictures be Fedexed to her so she could complete the destruction procedures herself.

But telling Oliver would only give him the chance to keep a few of them, so Felicity mumbled something under her breath, brushing a stubborn lock of hair away from her face. Attempted to, anyway. It came loose just as quickly, and Oliver helped her tuck it behind one ear — only for it to flop back to square one, making them both laugh.

"I need a haircut," she said, eyeing the messy end of her fishtail braid. "It's too hot for summer."

"So do it," Oliver answered. "I like your hair either way."

"You've never seen me with short hair," Felicity said, adding privately: _and you never will_. "This face — not great for going full-on _Rosemary's Baby_."

Oliver blinked. "Is that a kid's book?"

Felicity made a mental note to sit him down at some point (preferably Halloween) and show him the joys of psychological horror movies. "You really need to catch up on your cultural references," she said.

But Oliver — true to stay-on-point form — was checking the time. "I'll head back to the apartment and finish up the packing. Then you can get a haircut, and I'll take care of dinner."

As if to emphasize his point, the same lock of hair fell back across Felicity's eyes, demonstrating that humidity plus her hair equaled pure, unadulterated follicular madness. From the way Oliver was looking at her, Felicity was also reminded that nine out of ten interruptions to packing time had started with Oliver unclipping her hair.

"Might speed up the packing," she said to herself, licking ice cream off her spoon. "Makes the heat easier too…"

She sucked on the plastic spoon while she considered the numerous options, trying to remember the last time she'd had her hair dyed. Maybe she _was_ due for a touch-up…

" _Felicity_ ," Oliver said abruptly.

Felicity looked up, startled. "Wha'?" she said, around the spoon.

Oliver looked acutely uncomfortable, and very unaware that his ice cream was dripping onto the pavement. "If you keep that spoon in your mouth, we won't make it to the apartment," he said, in an oddly strangled voice.

When she realized what she'd done, Felicity gave a shout of laughter that made half the street turn to stare at them. "A spoon — really?" she whispered, a hand over her mouth and the offending utensil hidden behind her back.

Oliver's ears were turning pink. "A lot — less — with you," he said, through gritted teeth.

A part of Felicity knew she was going to pay for this later — in some slow, deliciously unpredictable way — but another, come-hither part of her _loved_ being able to tease Oliver Queen.

"So…" she said innocently. "When I'm wearing one of your shirts — you know, that plaid one — and _maybe_ no underwear…"

" _Felicity!_ "

* * *

Felicity rummaged around in her bag for the keys, her phone pinched securely between shoulder and ear while Thea updated her on the status of what would only be known as _Oliver's Basement Surprise_ (the name was a Work in Progress).

It was difficult to believe that only two minutes ago, the biggest thing Felicity had been worried about was how Oliver would take her new haircut, not the possibility that his little sister could blow up their new-slash-old home, before they'd even had the chance to move in yet.

"How's the house looking?" she asked, hovering in the lobby of her apartment building instead of going upstairs, where her gifted-with-inhuman-hearing-capabilities husband would be within earshot.

"I assume by that, you mean — _has anyone broken a window or blasted a hole through the floor_?" Thea answered, with her usual affectionate snark. "In which case, no. I know my way around the house — thank God that psychobitch Rochev never got the chance to change anything."

"Well," Felicity kicked at a minuscule scuff-mark on the lobby floor, trying not to think the time she'd rammed Isabel face-first into the asphalt with the team's van. "She had other things to worry about — Mirakuru soldiers, ruining your brother's life, all that wannabe super-villain stuff."

"Right," Thea said, which was a pretty decent response to… _that_. "Anyway, we're just putting the last touches on the case — screws and stuff, making sure it doesn't fall over and squash anyone."

"I'm sorry — _we?_ " someone said in the background.

"Shut up, Roy," Thea said, her voice muffled around the hand that had obviously failed to cover her phone's mic.

"Thea — _Thea_?" Felicity said, but the phone was obviously being passed around in a scuffle.

There was a muffled yelp (Roy, probably), Thea saying something that sounded vaguely smug, and a very cheery voice took over the line. "No worries, Felicity, we've got everything covered," Cisco said, his ear-to-ear grin radiating across the call like a tangible aura. "The suit looks great — everything according to the specs — and I even marked up some space in the basement where you could put in a boxing ring —"

"— _no_ boxing ring," Felicity said, just as somebody said _"YES,"_ very loudly in the background. "Cisco, thanks for coming all the way to Starling, but I think Oliver might actually pull a _Vlad-the-Impaler_ if you try and turn his basement into some kind of superhero fight club."

"Gotcha — you guys need some time to sleep on it," Cisco said understandingly, which was ironic, given the fact that he'd missed the point entirely. "And no biggie about the train ride. I — uh — (she could sense him grinning wider than ever) I have a date."

" _Date?_ " Felicity said, before she could stop herself. "In Starling?"

Cisco thankfully missed the less-than-flattering surprise. "I know, right?"

"Is this an online date?" Felicity asked. "Cisco, give me the name so I can run it through ORACLE and — oh, hell, there's no good way to say this — make sure you're not being catfished by some middle-aged man who's going to beat you up and steal your wallet."

"Aw, you guys are the best," Cisco said, completely unfazed. "Don't worry, it's someone you know, but I'm not telling, because I kinda want to keep this priv—"

Someone snatched the phone from Cisco. "It's _Laurel_ ," Roy said, and Felicity caught an indignant noise in the background. "I _know_ — I wanted to send her in for a cataract exam too, but it's legit. Oliver's _ex-girlfriend_ — dating a science geek from Central City. Oliver's ex. Oliver. Do you remember what Oliver looks like?"

"My husband?" Felicity said, sarcastically. "Pretty sure I do, but if you need a picture to jog your memory, I have a few good ones. Do you want _with clothes_ , or birthday suit?"

Roy gagged. "Sorry I asked. I'm going to go beat myself over the head now."

"You do that," Felicity said, and the phone changed hands again.

"Don't worry, Felicity," Diggle said. "They have a responsible adult to supervise them with the power tools."

"Make sure Roy's not too mean to Cisco," Felicity said worriedly. "Although, I kinda see where he's coming from — with the whole Laurel thing."

"I don't know," Diggle sounded very amused. "Some people just have a thing for geniuses."

Felicity blushed. "Touché, best man. Don't stay up too late, okay? Lyla's going to kill me if I make you miss Sara's bedtime."

"Will do," he said. "And Felicity?"

"Mm?"

"I'm glad you talked Oliver into getting the mansion back. Our boy's finally grown up."

Felicity's smile was shy, even though she was proud — so unspeakably proud — of Oliver, enough to feel her chest ache with it.

"Took him long enough," she agreed. "Thanks for doing this, John."

"Keep him out of trouble — I need him alive to man the barbecue pit on Saturday."

Felicity scrubbed self-consciously at her freshly cut hair, wondering if there was a real possibility that the new look might startle Oliver into a state of physical incapacitation (unlikely, but entertaining nonetheless). "I'll keep you posted on that one."

* * *

Typical Felicity-luck: Oliver had gone for takeout by the time she got back. Felicity scanned the note he'd left on the kitchen table — wondering why, when given the option, her husband had gone for pen and paper instead of a text message. She shook her head at the slanting writing (in Sharpie, no less) and slipped off towards the bedroom to change back into her packing clothes.

The night was hot and sticky and even though Oliver must have only turned the AC off for less than ten minutes, sweat beaded at the back of Felicity's neck when she swapped her sundress for the same blue tank and shorts she'd been wearing all day.

The living room was mostly cleared out, except for the photo frames. Time constraints notwithstanding, Felicity found herself going through each of the photos with a smile on her face. Hardly any of them were just Oliver and herself alone, mostly dinners at Diggle's house, the rainy wedding photos, League picture, one at a company function they'd both attended…

For the second time that day, Felicity was on her knees packing when the key turned in the lock, and Oliver returned with food.

"Felicity?" he said.

Felicity waved from behind the sofa. "Here," she said, staggering to her feet, a frame in either hand. "Is that pizza?"

Oliver was staring at her, pizza box forgotten on the kitchen counter, staring like he'd never seen her before. His slightly-open mouth was _not_ a good sign.

Felicity's hand immediately jumped to her hair, which almost turned messy (and concussion-y), given the fact that she was still holding onto a pair of solid silver photo frames. She put them down before she could clunk herself on the head, smoothing the layers down self-consciously. It was shorter than anything she'd ever had before, the loose curls just barely brushing the tops of her shoulders in contrast to her pre-haircut state, when it'd been waist-length and nearly unmanageable. Chopping so much of it all at once had nearly turned her hormonal at the salon, but the lightness of stepping outside — after — had been indescribable.

So was the increasingly silent pause between Oliver seeing, and Oliver reacting.

"It's a little short," Felicity said, tugging awkwardly on a curl and wondering if _this_ was her _Rosemary's Baby_ moment. Minus the satanic spawn, but double the shocked husband.

"Felicity…" Oliver began. "You — you look —"

Felicity waited, but he seemed to have stammered himself into silence. " _O-kay_ ," she said, even more awkwardly. "Usually I'm the one speaking in sentence fragments, so I'm just gonna assume that you're feeling _all right_ about my hair. Pizza?"

An idea seemed to have sparked behind Oliver's eyes, and before Felicity had even _touched_ the pizza box, his hands were on her arms — nothing feather-light or gentle about his touch then — simultaneously pulling her closer and sliding up to hold her shoulders — into the flyaway softness of her newly short hair —

Felicity's back arched against the kitchen counter when Oliver kissed her, with enough enthusiasm to kinda-sorta make up for the long silence after the first look. Which she still should have been a little pissed about, but when someone used his mouth the way Oliver did…

Honest-to-god, it was hard to stay mad after a kiss that took her breath away.

"You couldn't have said _I like it_?" Felicity gasped, holding his face in her hands. " _I like it_ still works."

"I just did," Oliver answered, breathing almost as hard as she was. "Bed?"

Felicity rolled her eyes. "I mean, if you _insist_ …" she said, and gave a yelp of laughter when Oliver hoisted her into his arms, with no doubt whatsoever as to where they were headed.

" _Absolutely,_ " he said.

* * *

Moving day dawned sunny and blue, showing every sign of being another scorching August morning. Felicity turned away from the window to give her apartment a final once-over, her insides humming with the knowledge that she was about to take a huge (and slightly overdue) step.

She was moving in with Oliver.

Moving into the Queen mansion.

"Can't believe we did it," she said, drawing a line through the fine dust that was already gathering over the furniture, as if the apartment was already returning to its prior state of vacancy. "We actually cleared everything out."

Behind her, Oliver finished taping up the last cardboard box, and hoisted it onto the kitchen island like it weighed nothing. "I know," he said, eyeing her newly shortened hair with the kind of look that left zero doubts as to what he was thinking. "Especially after you decided to come back looking like that."

Felicity ruffled the shoulder-length curls. "Well," she said, modestly. "The haircut was supposed to make you _want_ to do packing instead of — well — me."

Oliver made a noise under his breath and pulled her to him, making it abundantly clear that he wanted to unpack (pun intended) the logic behind her statement. Felicity tripped closer with a low laugh, wrapping her arms around his neck as they both moved into a kiss.

And they _did_. But it wasn't quite the hungry, we-left-the-pizza-on-the-counter kisses like the ones from the night before. There was something about it that made the butterflies in Felicity's stomach flutter more than ever — giddy with excitement, breathless at the occasion — because this was it.

"We're really doing this?" Felicity said, feeling like her face might actually split from all the smiling. "Really, _really_?"

Oliver chucked her under the chin and slid the last box into his arms. " _Really_ ," he promised. "A marriage and a life with you, Felicity — that's what I want."

"Oliver Queen," Felicity said, very seriously. "I think you might actually have grown as a person. If you say you're happy, I think I might actually lose my mind."

"I'm _happy_ ," Oliver said, and Felicity laughed, stepping over the threshold to join him in the summer sunshine.

The laughter was still on her lips when Felicity looked over her shoulder, taking in her apartment — her _old_ apartment, now — for the last time. Four years ago, she could never have imagined living anywhere else, much less standing in the doorway with her husband and the love of her life, carrying his children, with the possibilities of anything and everything stretching out at their feet.

The promise of it made Felicity smile, and she released the door, watching it swing shut with a gentle breath of air.

The sound had a surprising finality to it, but she breathed in, breathed out. A chapter of her life was over, and another one ready — so ready — to begin.

Felicity smiled up at Oliver. "Come on," she said, standing on tiptoe to kiss him over the box. "Let's go home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple of things:
> 
> \- I have no idea where the BlackVibe (Cisco/Laurel) thing came from - actually I do - KarlyBlack, blaming this one on you.
> 
> \- I'm writing this from beyond the grave because of that clip the CW just posted. Olicity. In bed. Not wearing clothes. Smiling. I'm dead. Reasons why I'm dead ^^ see above. I tell you, S3 killed me with the angst but S4 will kill me with an overdose on fluff.
> 
> \- If there's more, I can't think of it, because it's late and I'm sleepy :)


	90. Heart On Your Sleeve

"Last chance to back out," Felicity said. Her feet were propped up on the truck's dash, and her hair was blowing around her face from the wind streaming in through the open windows. "You sure you don't want to turn the mansion into a Playboy den?"

Oliver shook his head with a smile, his eyes still on the road. "Hard to raise children with cigar smoke and Scotch all over the place," he said. "Besides — your name's on the deed too, Felicity _Queen_."

Felicity snapped her fingers in mock-exasperation. "Forgot about that."

"And you?" he asked. "Any regrets?"

"Mm," Felicity said. "We should have made a bigger deal about the last time in my apartment — I'm pretty sure there were still one or two surfaces we never managed to do it on."

Even though it was something Felicity would most definitely have said, the frankness of it still managed to take Oliver completely by surprise, and he laughed, feeling infectiously light as the sound was borne away from him by the rushing wind. Felicity smiled at him from her seat and tipped her head back, her eyes closed to the sun. She looked utterly at home in the sunlight, shades of gold and brown and cream, and Oliver could have watched her forever.

"I love you, Felicity," he said.

Felicity's smile grew, and she reached for his free hand, lacing their fingers together across her belly. "A marriage and a life with you," she said softly, repeating his words from the apartment. "Sounds good to me."

* * *

Felicity knew it was usually the opposite, but the mansion looked much bigger than she remembered from the viewing. To the point where a moving truck of their stuff, parked outside the grand double doors, looked positively puny by comparison.

"I never thought I'd say this," she said, taking Oliver's hand and jumping down from the truck. "But I don't think we'll have enough stuff to fill this place. Like — ever."

Oliver kissed the side of her head. "The new furniture's coming on Monday," he said. "It'll just be empty for a few more days. Besides, the house isn't that big, trust me."

"First of all — _mansion_ ," Felicity corrected. "You calling it a house is indicator _numero uno_ that you can't be trusted with size."

There was a very pregnant pause.

Pun, so _very_ much intended.

Felicity winced. "That came out _so_ much worse than I meant it to."

The car keys swung from Oliver's forefinger as he leaned against the side of the truck. "Really?" he said, ostentatiously playing dumb. "I always thought you _liked_ trusting me with size. I believe your exact words were _don't st—_ "

Felicity made an indignant noise and swiped for the keys, but Oliver dodged, catching her with his arms instead. Before she could react, he'd passed one arm under her legs, the other behind her shoulders, and scooped her off the loose gravel driveway, striding towards the house with single-minded purpose.

Felicity had wrapped both arms around Oliver's neck out of reflex, swaying against his chest while he carried her. "Uh, Oliver?" she said, wondering if she needed to sketch him a rough diagram about how moving into a house worked. "The truck's that way."

Oliver appeared to be highly unconcerned by this information, reaching instead for his keys to the front door. "I know," he answered.

"So…I get that I'm pregnant and all, but why are you moving the _one_ thing in the truck that has legs and could have — I don't know — _walked_ inside the house of her own accord?"

Oliver turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open with a creak. "Because," he said, in a very different tone of voice, "I want to carry my wife over the threshold of our new home."

" _Oh_." Felicity's cheeks felt very warm. "I didn't know you were a sucker for traditions."

Oliver's laugh echoed through the vast, wood-paneled foyer. "I figured that after a handmade ring, a wedding ceremony in the middle of a thunderstorm, and an unconventional husband like me — you deserved something the normal way," he said, and brought her smoothly into the house. "Like this."

Nothing earth-shattering happened when they took their first step inside the mansion, but Felicity laughed anyway, and tilted her head back to look at Oliver. "My hero," she breathed. "Now what?"

Oliver considered her question, surveying the foyer. Even though the skies were a blazing, cloudless blue, the stained glass windows and darkly wooded panels kept the house in a perpetual state of shade, as if they were in the cooling shelter of a tree's branches.

It was a soothing, reassuring feeling, one Felicity hoped Oliver could sense too, as he looked around their new home — his old one — at the walls he'd known all his life, at the sunlight flaring through the jewel-bright windows, and finally — his wife.

A smile warmed his face. "Everything," he said.

* * *

Spoiler alert: it was _not_ perfect. The house not having any furniture yet meant that there were a lot of cardboard boxes piled in Oliver's old room (otherwise known as the _Don't Touch Anything_ quarantine space), lamps sitting directly on the floorboards beside the wall plugs, and a lot of polished wood where soft (and expensive) rugs used to be.

"At least your room's finally being useful," Felicity said, a comment that earned her a pinch someplace she didn't want to specify.

The heat was both good and bad. The bad part was obvious, because shifting cardboard boxes in the blazing sun had a way of making two grown adults very sweaty. The good, on the other hand, was more of an unanticipated windfall, and it came in form of the August heat persuading Oliver to discard his shirt while moving things into the house. If Felicity was being honest about their moving capacities, Oliver moved about three (and a half) boxes per her one, though she was _highly_ convinced that her number would have been less pathetic…if her husband hadn't been shirtless and sweaty just a few feet away from her.

All.

The.

Time.

After the third close shave with dropping a box out of sheer, untempered distraction, Felicity had delegated herself the task of unpacking the essentials — kitchen, bathroom, bed, in that order. Thanks to Oliver's borderline OCD packing skills, she'd managed to find all five boxes labelled _kitchen_ , unloaded them, and was currently in the process of slicing lemons for the iced tea chilling in the working fridge.

They'd picked up groceries on the way to the mansion, and as rudimentary-slash-poisonous as Felicity's cooking skills were, she'd recognized the stew meat, black-eyed peas, fresh onions and peppers as the required ingredients for Oliver's Work-in-Progress chili recipe. _Work-in-Progress_ , because it wasn't Italian food. Italian was Oliver's specialty — _that_ , he'd taught himself to cook with one hand tied behind his back — but her current craving for chili had baffled him slightly. So had the how-to of making cornbread.

Not that it had stopped him. Three chili dinners in one week and Oliver's dedication to satisfying her food cravings showed no signs of slowing. Felicity poked her head inside the fridge to check the temperature of the iced tea carafe, and satisfied at the more-or-less coldness of it, she poured out a tall glass for Oliver.

The fresh lemon slices bobbed enticingly on the surface when Felicity carried it out to the foyer. Oliver was inside the truck, shifting boxes towards the front.

"Hey, handsome," she called, holding up the glass. "Don't overwork yourself."

Oliver wiped his forehead (some version of Felicity conspicuously dropped her jaw) and climbed down from the truck, landing soundlessly on the gravel. "What's this?" he asked.

His hesitation was understandable, given the risky nature of her culinary experiments.

"Just iced tea," Felicity reassured him. "One of the few non-lethal things I'm allowed to make."

Oliver accepted the glass with a murmured _thank you_ and drank — which made the muscles in his throat work in a highly fascinating way. Felicity heard herself gulp, _loudly_ , and hastily covered the sound with a cough.

It was hot out, they had a house to move into, and a moving truck to return by five. They could not — repeat, _not_ — do… _that_ , or they'd be gone for the whole afternoon.

"Are you all right?" Oliver asked.

"Mm-hm," Felicity's voice was about two pitches higher than it should have been. "House…dusty."

Oliver frowned. "The cleaners should have been through the place," he said, reaching for the phone in his back pocket. "I'll call —"

" _Sweaty_ ," Felicity blurted out, and immediately bit her lip, hard enough to taste blood.

Oliver looked like he wanted to check her for signs of heatstroke. "Felicity…"

" _Okay!_ " she said loudly, holding her hands up. "I can't — concentrate — on anything you're saying when you're not wearing a shirt and you're doing…" She gestured vaguely at the whole shirtless-and-glistening-with-sweat tableau, "… _that_."

The distraction cleared from Oliver's eyes, and he glanced down at his torso, as if he'd just realized that he wasn't wearing a shirt. "Oh," he said. "Do you —?"

" _Yes_ ," Felicity said, restraining herself from bouncing on her heels like she needed the bathroom ( _gross simile, thank you brain_ ). "But we need to finish unpacking, and we don't even have a bed…"

"Like that's ever stopped us," Oliver remarked, taking a step closer.

_Oh, what the actual hell._

Felicity wanted to say that she handled it in a semi-graceful way — the transition between casual conversation and full-on making out with her husband — but then she'd be lying. To herself. Which was extra shades of sad.

What _really_ happened was that she (for lack of a better word) attacked Oliver, mouth-first, practically slamming him into the steel wall of the moving truck. The glass went smashing into the gravel (oops), spilling ice cubes and cold tea all over their legs (double oops), and Felicity found herself pressed up against a stack of boxes with Oliver standing between her legs.

"I hope — this — doesn't get us — a surcharge —" Felicity panted, fumbling with the buttons on her untucked shirt.

"Only if we tell them," Oliver said, tugging the sleeves down past her wrists so he could get at her shoulders.

All this, he did with the same arousing ease of the night before, which made Felicity wonder why she hadn't cut her hair sooner, given how much attention he devoted to her neck and shoulders, the kind of attention that made her wonder if he'd start biting soon. A development she wouldn't have minded. Not at all.

Most of Oliver's efforts _did_ seem to be concentrated on the shoulder blade area, which made Felicity think she'd underestimated the whole guys-like-long-hair thing. Or — if she was being immature — an ex-frat boy's love of boobs.

"You're supposed to be a frat boy," she pointed out, laughing as Oliver's kisses tickled her skin. "Don't _shoulders_ violate some kind of rule? Like _Thou Shalt Not Love Shoulders More Than B_ —"

Oliver lifted his head. "Says the computer genius who likes to hear her husband talk about firmware…cobalt-level encryption…penetrating user interfaces…"

Hearing Oliver talk computers nearly sent Felicity off right then and there. "Come _on_ ," she groaned, tightening her legs around his middle.

Oliver's thumbs were in the waistband of her underwear. "That's the idea," he agreed, and pulled.

* * *

"Should have thought about mosquitoes," Felicity muttered, eyeing the raised pink welt on her forearm. She had three new bug bites, and the pattern of the truck's uneven steel floor distinctly tattooed across the underside of her thighs and back.

But she felt good. Like, _really_ good.

And part of the reason had just gotten his clothes back on. Well, his pants. The shirt was pretty non-negotiably missing, which Felicity may or may not have encouraged by tossing it somewhere into the bushes (oopsie).

"Let me see," Oliver said, and Felicity held out her arms to show him.

Oliver bent his head and sucked gently on the first bug bite, which she hadn't been expecting him to do, at all. "You know, if you wanted to give me a hickey, all you had to do was ask," she commented, watching him move on to the next one.

"It works," Oliver pressed lightly on her skin with his thumb. "Learned it on the island."

Even though Felicity knew Shado and Sara had been on Fantasy Island too, she had to actively erase the mental picture of Slade Wilson teaching Oliver what to do about bug bites.

Now _that_ was an image.

"So what's up with you and shoulders?" Felicity asked, trying the sucking trick on her bug bite. "I thought frat boys just fixated on boobs."

"I'm not _fixated_ ," Oliver said, sounding vaguely insulted. "I like _your_ shoulders."

Felicity mentally went through her wardrobe choices. "Oliver, I go sleeveless almost every day," she said.

Oliver gave her a look. "Why do you think I kept working out in the Foundry?"

"An all-encompassing determination to shame every human being with your impossible muscle definition?"

Oliver slid another box from the back of the truck. "I couldn't exactly kiss you before we started dating," he said bluntly. "So working out helped me —"

"— _not_ spontaneously combust from _desire_?" Felicity teased.

Oliver snorted, as if it was a gross understatement. "At one point, it got so bad that I had to have a conversation with Diggle explaining I wasn't attracted to him — I'd just seen you wearing gym clothes."

Felicity laughed. "John never told me," she said through her fingers.

"I'm sure he wanted to give us a chance to work things out on our own, not jump straight into bed with each other." Oliver smiled at her, leaning across to kiss her softly on the lips. "I'm glad he did."

"Speak for yourself," Felicity said, hopping from the truck and reaching for a smaller box. " _I_ could have handled the getting-into-bed thing. If I had a penny for the number of times I wanted to unzip those leather pants, I wouldn't have had to take that crappy job at _Tech Village_ after QC went down."

"You wanted me?" Oliver asked, eyebrows raised. Like it was brand new information.

Felicity took her time answering, glad that she had a box in her hands and was thus prevented from groping and grabbing anything within reach. "You're telling me that you spent all that time rolling around the floor shirtless, and you _didn't_ know what you were doing?"

"You were always looking at the computers — I thought you stopped watching," he admitted.

Felicity playfully hip-checked him and started walking back up to the house. "Never did," she said over her shoulder, and watched him smile.

* * *

Not-so-brief interruptions to moving day aside, they still managed to return the truck in good time, and early evening found Oliver making dinner in the mansion's old kitchen. It was a strange experience to say the least, using the glistening stoves and cabinets and appliances in a place where the most he'd ever done was walk in and ask the maid to make him something. But he had other things on his mind other than the role reversal, namely — making sure his wife didn't eat all the ingredients before they made it to their plates.

"Felicity, there won't be any peppers for the salad if you keep eating them," he said reasonably, eyeing the diminished pile of red bell pepper cubes on the cutting board.

"S'not my fault," Felicity said, around the piece of pepper she was currently chewing. "S'what you get for recruiting me as food prep." She poked a piece at him. " _Ah_."

Oliver obediently ducked his head so she could put the pepper in his mouth. It was crunchy and sweet, tasting of summer and quiet evenings like these — cooking dinner at home, with Felicity — ones he wouldn't have given up for the world.

"Good, right?" Felicity said, scraping the peppers into the waiting glass bowl of black olives, cucumbers and feta cheese. "Can't cook to save my life, but I _can_ choose groceries."

"Yes, you can," Oliver agreed, sliding the pan of cornbread from the oven and setting it on a wire rack. The toothpick had come out clean — which meant that the the bread was ready. All he had to do was check on the stewing chili…

Spicy steam billowed out of the pot when he lifted the lid, and Oliver gave it a few stirs with a wooden spoon, reaching one-handedly for their bowls with the other. Felicity was tossing the salad on the other side of the counter, so Oliver scooped a bit of chili out for her and blew gently on the spoon to cool it.

"Taste," he said, holding it out to her.

Felicity tucked her hair behind her ears and leaned forward to taste the chili. Oliver watched her eyes widen, and her hand came up to cover her mouth.

"Oh, my god, Oliver," she said. "It's _perfect._ What did you do? And since I probably won't understand any of it, I mean — can you do it again?"

"You like it?" Oliver asked. "Really?"

"As much as your Italian food," Felicity promised, and propped her elbows on the counter, attempting what looked like a wink. "I could kiss you right now — but the food'll get cold before we're done."

Oliver pretended to consider this. "I think we can risk it," he said, moving closer.

" _Can we_ ," Felicity breathed, teasing him with shy, playful touches along his jaw.

They were both smiling when their mouths met, and dinner almost went cleanly from Oliver's mind — until the pot began to whistle and he had to take it off the flame. Felicity laughed, gathering the plates and salad so they could eat out in the drawing room, facing the sunset.

The drawing room was currently doubling as their temporary bedroom, and they'd pushed mattress up against the wall, covering it with sheets and pillows so it could pass as a decent bed. Neither of them minded in particular, and soon they were eating piping-hot chili out of bowls, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

Oliver was a quiet eater — always had been — but Felicity made periodic groans while she ate, a habit that was both adorable and acutely distracting, especially since the food was hot and would most certainly hurt if he spilled it out of carelessness.

The effort that had gone into stepping out of his comfort zone and perfecting a chili recipe…Oliver found that it was all worth it, just to see the satisfied smile on Felicity's face.

"Who knew Oliver Queen would turn out to be a master chef?" Felicity said, tearing off a piece of cornbread. "All because I mentioned I was craving chili."

"You know me," Oliver answered, straight-faced. "Always full of surprises."

"Mm." Felicity sucked on the end of her spoon. "Speaking of — I have a surprise for you."

Oliver paused in the middle of ladling a second helping, his curiosity piqued. "What?"

Felicity shook her head with an enigmatic smile. "Not telling."

* * *

Felicity should really have rethought that third helping of chili, especially since she'd known there were going to be stairs. But logic, in the face of necessary eating for three and _food_ — had come up with the short end of the stick, so to speak.

"Felicity," Oliver said again, "do you know where you're going?"

Felicity sighed. Oliver worried too much when it came to surprises, like everyone's definition of the word was as dangerous as his. "Rephrasing the same question for the _thousandth_ time won't make me tell you what the surprise is, you know," she replied, her voice echoing up the smooth walls of the stairwell.

Oliver's answer was a low mutter in the vein of _worried husband_ , but Felicity was more concerned with taking mental notes, adding them to the ever-growing number of improvements in her to-do list. The lights were a little dim in the stairwell, and it was at least three floors into the ground — definitely a good reason to put in an elevator — maybe in one of the studies? Library, maybe.

" _Felicity._ " Oliver caught her hand just before she reached the door at the bottom. "I've seen the plans for the house before. There's nothing down here — it's just a basement."

Felicity's fingertips found the keypad installed into the side of the door. "You sure about that?" she asked, and punched in the code.

Oliver's eyebrows were most definitely raised when the door opened with a mechanized beep, releasing them into the pitch-black basement. Felicity ran her palm along the side of the wall until she found the smooth lever, and she yanked it up with a metallic crank.

The lights hummed to life, the computer screens and equipment blinking awake, power surging in the concrete beneath their feet like they were standing in the core of the mansion, which — she supposed — was sort of the point.

"Good evening, Mrs. Queen, Mr. Queen," said a disembodied voice. "Welcome home."

"Hi, Oracle. How're things looking?" Felicity said, beckoning a bemused Oliver along with her.

"Five new green alerts in the last hour," Oracle answered smoothly. "I've sent them to your personal computer. Activity in headquarters is uneventful."

"That'll be the first," Felicity muttered, pausing to tap on one of the transparent keyboards, her brow furrowed in concentration.

"Did you do this on your own?" Oliver asked, plainly entertaining the delusion that Felicity had somehow managed to transport all the high-tech computer equipment by herself.

"I had help," she reassured him. "Pretty much everyone pitched in from day one — Roy and Dig did the training equipment — I did the tech stuff, of course — and your sister was the one that suggested I turned part of this into a garage, actually. You know, for your bike and car, just in case we get called into work while we're at home. But I figured I'd get your reaction first, before I started blasting through concrete to put in an elevator."

Oliver didn't look like he disagreed. He ran his hand along the smooth concrete floor of a raised dais, his expression curious. "For sparring?" he inquired.

"Mm-hm. And there's more." A few feet away, Felicity patted the solid steel frame of a salmon ladder, unabashedly staring. "I like watching you do that."

Oliver shook his head in disbelief. "Felicity…I can't believe you did all this. With the babies — the new house — and the moving — you shouldn't have."

Felicity kissed his cheek. "Renovating underground lairs is kinda my thing," she said lightly. "Besides — I wanted you to feel at home."

Oliver turned, totally serious again. "I do," he said. "I do, Felicity. Thank you…for all of this."

Not quite. Felicity pulled away before Oliver could embrace her, tugging him by the hand instead.

"Don't thank me yet," she murmured, leading him towards a cloth-shrouded shape on the far side of the entrance. The rectangular corners were clearly outlined against the canvas, and Felicity backed towards it, gently letting Oliver's fingers slip from hers as she gathered the thick cloth in her fist.

"Early Hanukkah present," she said, and pulled the fabric clear.

* * *

A part of Oliver was still in delayed shock that Felicity had gone through all the trouble of trying to surprise him — a successfully carried out endeavor that made him question if there were truly any limits to what his brilliant wife set her mind to accomplishing.

Another part of him was overwhelmed by the sense of _rightness_ that came from standing in a lair born of Felicity's ideas — just like the old Foundry, the one she'd painstakingly renovated, the one that had become a second home.

Oliver was starting to think that Felicity had a way of making alien places feel like they weren't, but this — this basement he'd never seen before, in a house he'd lived in all his life — was something different.

Something else.

The layers of canvas fell away to reveal a clear glass case, and Oliver stared at what awaited him inside. He shouldn't have been surprised — not when his bow had accompanied the refurbished Foundry as a gift from Felicity — but he was.

Because it was like nothing he'd seen before.

A brand new suit…for him.

For the Green Arrow.

"It's a little late," Felicity said, chafing her hands in front of her from nervousness. "You've been the Green Arrow for a couple of weeks now, but better late than never, right?"

"You made this?" Oliver asked quietly.

"Actually, Cisco made it," Felicity amended. "I just sent over the specs. Kevlar bi-weave, strong enough to stop a knife and long-range ballistics, which, as a wife, I'm pretty happy about. I made sure he kept the hood because of the sentimental value — but I — um — _may_ have tweaked a little with the sleeves."

Oliver circled the case, taking in the design. The green was different — a shade or two lighter — almost identical to the color of the dress Felicity had worn to his speech at City Hall.

"I can see that," he said evenly, noting that the usual long sleeves had been replaced with what looked like Kevlar-armored shoulder plates, and protective gauntlets up to the elbow. "Any particular reason?"

" _Well_ ," Felicity said, watching him from the other side of the glass. "If I wanted to be poetic, I'd tell you that coming out as the Green Arrow and Oliver Queen means you wear your heart on your sleeve now, and your suit should represent that. _But_ , if I was being honest…" She ducked around the case and winked at him. "I just kinda like to see your arms."

It was an admission as heartfelt as it was amusing, and Oliver found a slow smile dawning across his face at the sight of it, because more than ever, he could see Felicity in the suit she'd created especially for him. There were dangers in the world they'd always have to face — whether they liked it or not — and Felicity knew as well as he did that some things were beyond their control. A bow was a gesture of hope, of the faith she had in his ability to shoot straight and true, but she'd as good as made this suit — this new, tempered armor — and it was a blessing from the love of his life, his humanity, one Oliver knew he'd carry with him into battle.

Always.

"So…" Felicity held her hands out by her sides. "How'd I do?"

Oliver looked around the lair, truly at a loss for words. _Perfect_ seemed like an understatement, and to say nothing at all was disappointing — even though Felicity would undoubtedly have understood.

So Oliver did the only thing he could, in place of the words that failed him. He gathered Felicity's face in his hands, gentle, so gentle, and kissed her on the lips. They kissed in the shadow of Oliver's new suit, entwined in the middle of the new heart Felicity had set beating again, the new home with endless, endless possibilities to build on — theirs, all theirs.

" _I like it_ still works, you know," Felicity repeated, when they finally pulled apart for air.

Oliver laughed, eagerly anticipating the many kisses the new lair would bear witness to, starting with this. "I know," he said softly. "But this works better."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so if I'm dead after 4x01 I at least got to do my take on the new Arrow suit (the arm thing is TOTALLY what I feel about Oliver's new short sleeves, just BTW).
> 
> Until the next update, then! See you guys on the other (fluffy) side. I know it's been a long ride with Legacies, and words cannot express how happy I am that we're getting the happy show we deserve. So if my work helped you kill the hellish hiatus time in some tiny way, I'm very glad you took the time to read it, and from the bottom of my heart, I hope you'll come away from season 4 not needing fanfiction at all.  
> (But I won't complain if you do)  
> Cheers,  
> -ChronicOlicity


	91. Family Expansion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, fellow dead shippers. If you're still alive, then congratulations, both on surviving and for learning to read the language of the dead. Cuz this is it. Anyway, this life is full of rainbows and unicorns and no I'm not high I'm just so happy BECAUSE OLICITY ARE FRICKING FRACKING HAPPY AND IT'S SO BEAUTIFUL I JUST WANT TO RUN EVERYWHERE THROWING CONFETTI THROUGH COMPUTER SCREENS.
> 
> Aherm.
> 
> Anyways, enjoy the update!

It was — to Oliver at least — a miracle that they ever made it out of the new lair. They stumbled on the staircase a few times, both of them too distracted by each other's touch to pull apart — not even to make sure they made it up the flight of steps without tripping.

But they did, between the small scuffles of uneven footing, muffled curses and smothered laughter. It made Oliver feel like a teenager again — to be chafed by his clothes and in a blazing hurry to get free of them, completely fixated by the body beneath his hands and under his mouth…to be overwhelmed by clumsy earnestness and moments of startling, _dizzying_ sensation.

Even though they left a trail of clothes between the basement and the drawing room, even though they tripped out of lone shoes and struggled clear of the clinging fabric — there was nothing of teenage awkwardness in what they were doing. It was the honest, uncompromising heat of two adults who knew each other — who _wanted_ each other — then, and there.

Then, and there.

The brief interlude of the afternoon aside, it occurred to Oliver that it would be their first, _real_ , time in their new home. As unsophisticated as their encounters usually were, Oliver wondered if there should have been some kind of circumstance — some mark of the occasion.

They were at the threshold of the drawing room when Oliver caught the doorframe, pulling them back with more force than he intended. Felicity stumbled, making a soft sound of protest as she did, disoriented from the interrupted kiss.

"Felicity," he began, holding her by the shoulders. "Should we — I mean —"

"What?" Felicity's voice was dazed, her eyes wide and unfocused. "What's wrong?"

Oliver shook his head quickly. "Nothing. It's just — we haven't done… _this_ …before."

Even with her mind conspicuously on other things, Felicity had an unfailing talent for sarcasm, and threw a very pointed look at her belly. "If that's what you _really_ think, I have some follow-up questions — namely whose babies you think I'm carrying right now."

It was amazingly hard to concentrate with Felicity half-naked in front of him, licking her full lower lip, still moist and pink from the kissing. But Oliver tried anyway. "I mean — in this house. _Our_ house. It's our first time. Shouldn't we…make it an occasion?"

Instead of looking annoyed, Felicity took his face in her hands, pressing her forehead to his with a laugh — like he'd said something adorably heartfelt. "I _love_ you, Oliver Queen," she whispered. "But we moved into our beautiful new home, you made me an _amazing_ dinner, and I surprised you with your swanky new superhero suit. Even for us, that's enough of an occasion for one day. So can we _please —_ for the love of heaven and ice cream and Netflix — skip the flowers and candles and get straight to bed?"

There was very little Oliver could disagree with — not when she'd put it like that. So he chose the answer that came the easiest to him.

"God, yes," he said, and Felicity seized him by the front of his shirt, something wickedly sexy in her smile as she backed towards their waiting bed.

It was nothing grand — nothing remotely in the way of the Queen tradition of canopy beds and stately four posters — just a mattress swathed in loose white sheets and a scattering of cushions from both their apartments. Simple, bare, and Oliver had never wanted anything more, just a bed where he could lay Felicity down and kiss her — touch her — love her, with all the time in the world to spare.

Felicity lowered herself onto the mattress, and Oliver climbed after her, hardly noticing the seamless transition between bare floorboards and soft sheets, because he only had eyes for her — just her.

All she had on was her underwear, and Oliver saw her throat convulse — her head dip back out of instinct — when he bent to kiss her stomach (slightly, deliciously rounded now), slowly but surely working his way downward…

It was a shock of heat between her legs, and Oliver felt her spine curve sinuously in his hands the moment he tasted her, shivers traveling unseen beneath her creamy skin, a low sound of unthinking bliss building in her throat.

One of the best feelings in the world was Felicity's hips twitching under his palms, the tensing grip of her hands on either side of his head as she worked herself to get the most out of Oliver's mouth on her body — wordlessly trusting in his ability to follow her cues.

And he did.

Felicity squirmed under his tongue, steadily losing herself in a series of low, breathy cries, and it only pushed Oliver to keep going — because he wouldn't have had any other sound christen their first night together in their vast, new home.

She jerked once into stillness — almost throwing him off with the strength of it — and he felt his body respond to her release, the tautness and heat enough of a torment to make him groan quietly into the warm softness of her inner thigh.

"Well," Felicity's head rolled lazily on the pillow, but Oliver knew from her smile that she was far from done. "We need to do something about that, don't we?"

Oliver slid further up the bed, until he hovered above her flushed face. "Do we, now?" he breathed, employing all measures of his self-control to tease her with light, brushing kisses around her lips.

Felicity nodded enthusiastically; she was already shifting beneath him, her small hands burning into his hips and the base of his spine as she adjusted their positions, her knees pressing gently on his sides.

"Oliver," she said, and he gave an involuntary groan at the heat of her palm. She was guiding them together — he trusted her to — every muscle in his body obedient to hers. Her lips were at his ear, panting slightly as they drew closer — closer —

They gasped at the same time — a small intake of breath like the skip of a heartbeat — and Oliver felt a smile spread across his face to mirror Felicity's. There were kisses and there was sex, but that moment — that ephemeral instant of two bodies sliding together at the beginning — it was a beautiful closeness he cherished more than anything else.

Oliver stroked the hair back from Felicity's cheeks, intent on savoring every moment of their first time. Before she'd cut her hair, it would have spilled across the sheets in a tangle of bronze-gold, tawny as the mane of a lioness — but it was shorter now, and spread around her face like a soft halo, leaving her beautiful white shoulders bare for him to mark with kisses.

Oliver _loved_ her shoulders. He'd never told her the reason why — that he loved them because they were built as small and deceptively delicate as the rest of her, but in his hands he could sense the fine tensile strength of the steel woven beneath the skin, unassuming in its existence, but strong enough to bear the weight of the world if she chose. Felicity's strength — along with her intelligence, her courage, her humor — was just one of the many things Oliver loved about his wife, one of the many qualities he looked forward to see grow and shape in the rest of their lives together.

And her?

Felicity's hands never seemed to fall still. All while they rocked together at an unhurried pace, her hands were gliding across his skin and faded scars, every skimming touch a silent chronicle of the secrets he'd told her and everything she remembered. She'd never said, but Oliver felt the heat of her like a pure, white flame behind his eyes, something incandescent, something holy, as though she made love to him to sear away all the memories he carried in his scars — reclaiming through love the loss and forced choices and pain and shadows, leaving only the sureness, the _choice_ he'd made to live.

Live.

And _live_.

Oliver loved her all the more for it, her never-ending faith in him, the unquestioning generosity of her open heart, and he made love to her — watching her shift and sigh beneath him — because he was grateful, so unspeakably grateful that she was in his life.

They had their marriage together, and this moment was — god willing — only the first in an unnumbered future of days and nights. There would be children, inevitable fights, tears, but — hopefully — enough laughter and quiet joy to make up for it all. In this house — this home — a place he never would have _considered_ if it hadn't been for Felicity. For all the ghosts and memories the place held for him, he'd never stopped to think about the stories — to separate the good from the bad, to think that maybe…just maybe…there was a chance that the house could become something more.

Until her.

Felicity had never been quiet, especially not when they were like this, and she murmured endearments to him, sometimes just fragments of speech that trailed off into bursts of sound. Oliver had always been content to listen, but today, he was the one who cupped her face — her beautiful face — in his hands and whispered:

"Thank you, Felicity."

Three simple words, not the first time he'd spoken them, and far from the last, if he could help it. Felicity stroked his cheeks and brought him nearer still, understanding — as always — without needing him to explain.

"Welcome home," she said softly.

Their faces were too close together to see, but Oliver knew they were both smiling at the simple, easy truth of it, because the two of them, together — _this_ — was home, and given the chance, neither of them would have changed a thing. Unseen, their hands sought and found each other, fingers laced tightly between the tangled sheets. Oliver kissed Felicity — slowly, deeply — knowing they were near their limits.

Sometimes the deepest connection ran in the things that went unsaid.

_I love you._

_I love you._

_There?_

_Yes — oh — that's —_

Felicity's grip tightened sharply — he could feel her heartbeat in their hands — her lips parting in a single, gorgeous moment of bliss.

"— _yes_ ," she gasped.

* * *

Felicity squashed a pillow between her chest and the mattress, resting her cheek on the rumpled cotton. It was unequivocally, _irresponsibly_ late, but since when had their nights ever been for sleeping?

"Quick answer — boobs or shoulders?" she asked.

Oliver's fingertips skimmed the curve of her spine, following the nape of her neck down to the small of her back. He made a small, thoughtful noise under his breath. "Pass."

"You're not supposed to think," Felicity said, nudging his leg with her foot. "That's the point of the question."

Oliver rolled onto his side, his hand warming her hip through the sheet. "What if," he said, widening his eyes for emphasis, "I told you that I loved — _every_ — part of you?"

Felicity squirmed as he drew her closer, her back to his chest, their legs hopelessly entangled beneath the sheets. "Then I know you're sucking up," she said, and laughed when he nuzzled at her skin. " _Suck-up_."

"That's not what you usually call me," Oliver observed, nibbling on her shoulder.

Felicity mentally reviewed the things she managed to babble during sex. She had no idea what Oliver made of them, but to her, at least, they were a mishmash of jumbled words and thoughts. Very expletive-y thoughts. "I think _suck-up_ is a promotion compared to your usual sex name, which is _oh-holy-f—_ "

She broke off with a shriek of laughter when Oliver attacked her, delivering scratchy kisses everywhere and anywhere he could reach. Said kisses eventually morphed into caresses of a more determined — _exploratory_ — nature, and it was Oliver's turn to laugh when he recognized where they were headed.

"Don't you _ever_ get tired?" he asked hoarsely, as Felicity wriggled her hips against him.

Felicity shook her head determinedly, pulling their entwined hands around her body as she turned her head to kiss him. "Six months," she mumbled into his lips. "Going to…make the…most of…naked husband…"

"…in our new home," he added, stroking her cheek. "You were right, Felicity. Coming back here…it was the right thing to do."

Felicity nodded, not at all smug that she'd turned out to be right, and Oliver — ever the epitome of stubbornness — was admitting it. "You're just saying that," she murmured, her fingertips trailing down the side of his face, "because I let you _do things_ to me in our living room. One thing. Multiple times. One thing all the time."

"Only once." There was something very sexy about the way Oliver's voice dropped, whenever his mind was on that _one thing_. His leg was between her thighs now — Felicity was trying not to moan, because she was ready — so ready —

One of their phones buzzed — as loud as an electric drill, rattling against the bare floorboards beside the mattress.

" _Leave it_ ," Oliver grunted, but Felicity twisted away.

"Could be the Justice League," she panted, groping for their phones. "We can't just —"

The prospect of going to work was apparently enough of an incentive for Oliver to break out the checkmate moves. He caught her wrists, pinning them to the mattress, leaning the length of his body — gorgeous, _lithe_ body — up against her back.

It was enough to make Felicity moan and forget her train of thought — for at least three, long seconds —

"What's the point of a _League_ ," Oliver asked, "if we have to be there all the time? You said that I need to learn to let people help me."

"I did, but —"

"Felicity?"

The phone was still ringing, but she wasn't reaching for it anymore.

"We can," Oliver murmured, and Felicity was _gone_.

* * *

"God, you guys suck," Thea said, slapping Oliver's arm — something _nobody and no one_ would have dared to do, except maybe Felicity (in other places — but in a wholly different context — so different — _thank you, brain_ ). "That fire could have turned into a real emergency, you know."

Oliver tapped his sister on the knee with the Bo staff he'd been polishing. "You wanted me to let you handle things on your own," he said — with maybe the slightest hint of smugness. "So I did."

Diggle shook his head silently. "Don't think it works that way, man."

Roy was a few feet away, swinging a pair of rattan canes with a vengeance. His arm had been out of its cast for a few weeks, and he appeared to be enjoying every minute of it. "Yeah, you don't get to sit on a high horse just because you — well —" He shot a guilty look at Felicity, his ears turning scarlet.

Oliver cleared his throat, loudly.

"…were busy," Roy finished, lamely. Though it was abundantly clear that everyone knew what Oliver had been sitting on.

So to speak.

"Okay, first of all," Felicity said. " _I_ wanted to pick up the phone. And second — since we went there — I was sitting on _him_ —"

There was a chorus of gagging noises, and an unmistakably smug expression from Oliver.

"—and _third_ ," Felicity continued loudly, "in case anyone's forgotten why we're here, we — all of us, _we_ —have new recruits to meet."

Roy stuck his hand in the air, the other covering his eyes. "I just want to go on record and say that I think we share too much."

"Noted," Oliver said. "Barry and the others are already assembling a team in Central City. It's not a contest, but —"

"—you want to win it—" Thea muttered.

"—Felicity and I don't feel right about leaving town for the honeymoon unless we have one in place too," Oliver finished, shooting his sister a glare. "At the very least, we should see how the new recruits fit into the group."

"If they still want to join up, after you're through with them," Roy said, under his breath.

Diggle sighed. "I never thought I'd ever have to say this, but a woman who can mimic lions —"

"— _animals_ —" Felicity added, a reminder that went ignored.

"—and a girl who can do tricks by speaking backwards—"

"— _magic_ —" Thea corrected.

"—aren't exactly your typical neighborhood crime fighters," Diggle said.

"Oo, you forgot one," Felicity said, glancing at the computer screen. "Recruit number three — he doesn't have any powers."

Diggle pinched the bridge of his nose. "But I'm guessing he has some _inhuman_ skill to make up for that."

"Says he trained in a circus — huh." Felicity raised her eyebrows. "Nice."

Roy snorted. "They didn't actually send in resumes, did they? Based on the last guy who dropped in for a chat, I assumed the MO was to just walk in on you and Oliver making out."

"Hey, he was _waiting_ in Oliver's office, okay?" Felicity said, for no apparent reason except to unintentionally make Bruce sound a whole lot creepier. Which he wasn't. As non-creepy and peace-loving as a guy with a bat fetish and crime-fighting habit could be, anyway.

"Uh-huh," Roy said. "So they _did_ send in resumes."

"Well, Mari got in touch — ORACLE filled in the gaps after she left me a name — the other two came recommended by a friend." Felicity picked up her phone when it buzzed, scrolling through to check her new messages. "Bruce knows them — they're good at what they do."

There was a conspicuous pause, and Felicity looked around. "What?"

Diggle — along with Thea and Roy — looked like Christmas had come early. "Oh, this is going to be good."

Oliver, on the other hand, did not. " _Bruce?_ " he repeated, and Felicity seized the armrests of her chair to stop herself from sliding off when Oliver steered her around, with probably more force than was strictly necessary. "Who's _Bruce_?"

Felicity squinted at him. " _Wayne_ ," she said, in a tone reserved specially for the hard of hearing. "I'm sorry — you do remember how to have actual _human_ conversations with people, right? Part of that involves calling friends by their first name."

Oliver's forehead looked like it was in imminent danger of developing a permanent crease. "Now he's your _friend?_ "

"Why do I feel like I can't think of an answer that won't get me in trouble?" Felicity wondered aloud.

"He sent you flowers," Oliver said, a non sequitur Felicity was having a little trouble following.

"I'm aware of that, yes."

She was also aware of the peanut gallery, observing their not-very-quiet marital hiccup with amusement.

"I'm not comfortable with him sending you flowers."

Felicity sensed that Oliver wouldn't be getting to the point anytime soon, so she settled instead for rubbing his back in what she judged to be a soothing manner, a patented preventative measure against developing angry-face. " _O_ -kay," she said, moving her hand in comfortingly slow circles. "Maybe we should discuss this at home. And by that, I mean — _not_ — in front of the peanut gallery."

"No, please," Diggle said, sharing none of Felicity's qualms about the continued use of Bruce Wayne to tease Oliver. "I can't wait to hear more about _Bruce_. Or should we call him the Batm—"

"Proximity alert," ORACLE interrupted, and the monitors filled with an external visual of the abandoned industrial complex doubling as the facade for headquarters. "Three unknowns approaching the facility, shall I proceed with security measures —"

"— _stand down_ ," Felicity said quickly. She reached for her tablet, and looked questioningly at the others. "Ready to meet some new friends?"

* * *

There were balmy August evenings spent enjoying the stars, and there were uncomfortably hot August nights in abandoned factory complexes, waiting for complete — but gifted — strangers to show up.

Felicity swore she heard Oliver's bow creak in protest to what was probably a _crushing_ grip around it. "Thirty-eight ways," he said. "Thirty-eight ways to put Wayne down."

Felicity was tracking the three potential recruits on her tablet, and rolled her eyes at the map, glad the others weren't in earshot. "Can we please focus on the essentials, here? Tonight's about meeting the new recruits and helping them feel — I don't know — like we're not going to _murder_ them in abandoned factory buildings?"

"I'm not going to murder them," Oliver said, stressing the word _them_ in a way that made it perfectly apparent who he _did_ envision murdering.

"Oliver," Felicity said. " _Focus_."

Oliver shook his head, muttering what sounded like a stream of Russian expletives under his breath. Diggle looked up from his Glock ( _just in case_ , he'd said), scanning the shadowed perimeter around their waiting place.

"Doesn't look like they're coming," he said doubtfully.

Felicity's eyes were on the map. "They're coming," she said. "Just —"

Oliver and Thea moved at the same time, each loosing an arrow from their bows that went hurtling into the darkness.

" _Oliver!_ " Felicity said, shocked.

But instead of the homicidal — and _messy_ — conclusion she'd been expecting, a clear, and surprisingly young voice echoed through the open space. " _Ezeerf sworra_ ," she said, and the arrows never found their targets — as if they'd frozen mid-air.

_Magic._

"Nice one," said a second voice, a woman's. "But the greeting could use a little work."

The third one laughed — a young man, this time. Couldn't have been any older than Roy. "Believe it or not, I've seen worse," he said.

There was a bone-like crack that made Felicity wince, but it was only Diggle activating a few luminescent flares. He hurled them into the space ahead, and they rolled, spreading the pale blue light as they went.

Finally they came to a stop, illuminating three figures still halfway in shadow.

"Sorry about that," Felicity said, stepping forward. She felt Oliver's wariness in the archer's stance he took, but being paranoid was his job. Hers…was a little more fun.

Ish.

"Bearing in mind that we're all standing in super creepy _Middle-of-Nowhere_ , and it probably can't get any creepier than that — thank you for coming," she said. "And I _promise_ we don't always shoot our friends with arrows."

Thea made a skeptical sound. " _Well_ …"

" _Anyway_ —" Felicity said, throwing her a _don't-scare-them_ look, "— hi. I'm —

"—the Oracle," said the young man. His tone suggested that he'd thought she was some kind of myth, which was flattering — to say the least.

"Right," she answered. "Felicity. And you're…"

"From Gotham," he said, and took a step into the light.

" _Whoa_ ," Thea muttered, because she — like Felicity — had gotten a good look at him.

He was a little too young (and _not_ -Oliver) to be Felicity's type, but she could see the appeal. Bruce Wayne had been handsome in a refined, _TIME Magazine_ type of way, and even though the stranger didn't have Roy's Abercrombie cheekbones, he was as long and lean and dark-haired as the former, with a slight smile that suggested he had a similar sense of humor.

"A mutual friend sent me," he said. "Dick Grayson. It's nice to finally meet you."

* * *

" _Ha_ ," Felicity said, triumphantly showing Oliver the new text from Cisco. "Told you he'd give Mari a codename in thirty seconds."

Oliver leaned over the back of the ob-gyn's _supremely_ uncomfortable chair to see the screen. " _Vixen_ ," he read. "She's not going to want to be called Vixen."

"You don't know that," Felicity said, already typing a reply. "The Canary Cry stuck. So did all the other villain names."

"I think being imprisoned in a subterranean pipeline may have had something to do with that," Oliver answered dryly.

"True," Felicity muttered. "We should probably contact Cadmus and about their detention options."

Oliver made a noncommittal noise. "Knowing Amanda, it's not going to be anything good."

Felicity bit her lip, her hand resting on the slight curve of her four-month belly. "Should we cancel?" she asked. "I mean — with the new recruits and everything — maybe going on a honeymoon isn't the best thing to do."

"No — Felicity," Oliver reached for her hand, sitting on the edge of the impossibly slippery chair with ease. "This is our last chance to go away before the babies come."

"So you _don't_ have vivid nightmares that Roy might murder Dick and call it a misfire?" Felicity said, sarcastically.

Oliver was unconvinced by her humor. "The team's in good hands," he promised. "John won't let anything happen — we'll be fine."

Felicity looked suspiciously at him. "I never thought you'd be so excited about Scotland," she said. "Ten days in a quiet seaside cottage with books and movies doesn't really seem like…your thing."

Not in the way golden beaches, skimpy swimsuits and colorful alcoholic drinks were, anyway. Basically, Bali.

Oliver looked like he was trying not to laugh. "Felicity, when have I ever said no to spending time alone with you, in a house, with no neighbors to complain about the noise?" he asked, in a very — _very_ — different voice.

Felicity's cheeks grew hot. "Oh," she said, nervously smoothing her shirt over her rounded belly. "Well, when you put it like _that_ …"

Oliver was smiling when he leaned over to kiss her, which as far as persuasions went, was a pretty good preview of what to expect on the (belated) honeymoon. Felicity was having a little trouble focusing at the prospect of those ten days, to the point where she was a little dazed when Oliver restated the question.

"So — Scotland?" he said.

Felicity nipped at his lower lip. "You're just tired of people walking in on us, aren't you?"

What Oliver would have said, Felicity didn't get a chance to hear, because Dr. Yeung walked into the room with their file and a scheduled ultrasound to conduct. She seemed surprised to find the father of the baby on time for once (who wouldn't, really), but she gave them both a warm smile, obviously taking their lack of freaky-out-ness to mean they'd processed the double baby bombshell.

"Your test results show a perfectly healthy pregnancy — so I guess getting some blood drawn wasn't all bad, was it?" she said, very nicely pretending that she didn't remember the bizarre methods Oliver had to employ in order to get Felicity to sit still for the needle. "Now, let's see how the twins are doing, shall we?"

"Right." Felicity gave Oliver's _somewhere_ a discreet pinch and retreated back up the chair, using her elbows to maneuver herself into a somewhat lying-there position so the doctor could start the ultrasound.

"How's the morning sickness?" Dr. Yeung asked, spreading the warm gel across Felicity's abdomen and flicking on the machine.

"Um…" Felicity was dividing her attention between the unintelligible screens and the doctor, something Oliver was evidently doing as well. "No emergency runs to the bathroom, so I think it's easing off. Is that good? Is that okay?"

"Lie still," Dr. Yeung said calmly, running the transducer horizontally over Felicity's belly. "The second trimester is usually when mothers have the easiest time. The nausea isn't as pronounced, and it means you can start gaining weight more easily."

" _Great_ ," Felicity muttered, less-than-enthused by the prospect of becoming a mini-orca. "At least my boobs are getting bigger."

Dr. Yeung laughed. "All right…let's have a look at your babies."

This time, Felicity knew the sound of a baby's heartbeat before anything else, but she still glanced nervously at Oliver, the both of them well aware that there was a capacity for things going wrong.

"Both babies are doing well — I'm hearing good, strong heartbeats. That's baby one," she pointed at the screen, where the surprisingly distinct shape of a baby's head bloomed across the screen at the movement of the transducer.

Felicity caught her breath, reaching instinctively for Oliver's hand.

"And _that's_ baby two," said the doctor, indicating a squirming shape above the first, curved like an inquisitive comma.

"Why can't I feel them kicking?" Felicity asked worriedly, watching as the baby churned restlessly inside of her.

"You probably can," she answered. "First-time mothers can't always distinguish between gastric activity and fetal movement — other times it's just too slight to feel. Give it time — usually by the end of the fifth month you'll be lucky to get anything done without the baby kicking around."

It was a perfectly reassuring doctor answer, but Felicity leaned back in her chair, her spine still rigid with nerves — searching the murky screen for signs of her babies. She didn't have to look for long. Unlike the first ultrasound, they weren't smudges anymore. The picture was still silver-gray and grainy, but Felicity felt her heart leap every time the swirls rearranged themselves to form the unmistakeable outline of a resting baby.

The two babies fit around each other like yin and yang, each contained in their own little world. One by one, the doctor pointed them out — the legs, curled towards their chests and kicking periodically at the boundaries of their little space, the pale white shapes of their spines and the perfect curve between forehead and nose, the rise and fall of their small torsos, as if they were ready — more than ready to breathe —

"The baby…it's moving?" Oliver asked, in a soft voice full of nothing but wonder.

Dr. Yeung nodded. "This one's a kicker," she said, indicating the more fidgety of the two. "The other one's a little quieter, but if I do this…" She pressed lightly on Felicity's stomach, and the effect was instantaneous.

The baby's arm leapt up to its head, knees bending in protesting kicks — too small, still too small to feel. Felicity covered her mouth. "Is it…?"

"Sucking its thumb," Dr. Yeung nodded. "It's a reflex for breastfeeding. See? Your baby's fine — it probably just wants to sleep."

"Do it again," Felicity pleaded. "Just one more time."

"Your husband can fill in for me." Dr. Yeung smiled at Oliver. "Go on."

"Can I?" Oliver looked nervous, as if he didn't — for once in his life — know what to do with his hands, even though she knew they were capable of stringing bows and making arrows from scratch.

Felicity gave his arm a squeeze. "It's okay, Oliver," she whispered. "I want to see."

Oliver reached out — so earnestly careful — and pushed the palm of his hand softly on Felicity's belly.

The baby's movement made him start, and Oliver _never_ started. But there it was — a tiny hand twitching up to its mouth — and Felicity heard Oliver's breath leave him in a shaky laugh.

"It's moving," she said, kissing Oliver's cheek again, and again, feeling like she could rise straight off the ground from the weightlessness of relief. "Our baby's moving."

"So," Dr. Yeung said jovially, "would you like to know the sex?"

_Oh._

In lieu of an answer, both Felicity and Oliver turned to look at each other. It was a brief, hardly-even-needed conversation had without words, in which Oliver tipped his head slightly towards the doctor and Felicity smiled, because there was only ever one choice, ever since they'd found out about the twins.

She turned back to Dr. Yeung. "I think we've had enough surprises for one pregnancy, doc," she said lightly. "Let's just drop this bombshell right now. What are we having?"

Dr. Yeung turned towards the screen with a smile. "Baby number one," she said, evidently trying to catch the perpetually squirming twin on top, "is a girl."

"A _girl_ ," Oliver breathed, and Felicity clutched at his hand, her heart in her throat because she almost knew what the doctor was about to say, and she wanted — so badly — to be right.

The other twin — the sleepy one who'd been sucking its thumb — she found more easily, and tapped on the screen to catch the picture. "Baby number two…is a boy." She faced them again, her hands by her sides as if to say, _that's that_. "There you have it, Mr. and Mrs. Queen. A boy and a girl — congratulations."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random Stuff:
> 
> \- I just realized that Legacies officially doubled the word count of You're His Hope last update. Whoaaaaaaa. *insert scared-face emoji*
> 
> \- I just picked my favorite characters from the Justice League/Young Justice cartoons (Vixen, Zatanna, NIGHTWINGGGGGG). Again, more of a possible sequel plot confetti scattering than anything substantive in this part, sorry :D
> 
> \- Yeah, I know you guys pretty much guessed they were going to be a boy and a girl since the non-identical twins. Never said I was very subtle.
> 
> \- Much like Bruce Wayne in Legacies, I enjoy messing with Oliver's feelings :)


	92. Quiet Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's amazing I even managed to continue this, after how late I stayed up to watch Arrow. Two in the flipping morning and early classes the next day. I love being a fan :)

"Felicity."

"Mmgh."

A hand on her back. " _Felicity_."

"Pfft."

The hand was shaking her now. "Felicity, wake up."

Her arm shot out across the pillow, indiscriminately aimed at nose, throat, and/or groin. " _Snarffles_ ," she muttered, and rubbed her face deeper into the stag-printed pillowcase. Her ears felt cold — wasn't it supposed to be summer in Starling?

Rain…she could hear it drumming on the roof above her head. Perfect reason to nap, if only Oliver would just go back to sleep. Or salmon ladder for a while…or something.

Only he didn't, and his considerable muscle mass made the bed frame creak when he shifted. That was weird — she could have sworn they'd been sleeping on a mattress in the drawing room. "I made breakfast," he said, clearly trying to tempt her from bed.

" _Florgon_."

Oliver sighed, and she felt his hand pat her somewhere on the leg — which was buried beneath a fluffy mountain of quilt. Huh. Weird choice for summer heat. "Felicity," he said, enunciating each syllable of her name slowly and deliberately. "I'm taking off my clothes."

Felicity cracked an eye. The inside of her head was all fuzzy, and she felt like she'd been asleep for days, but she exerted what felt like an unreasonable amount of effort to shift beneath the bedcovers, so she could check if her husband was indeed naked.

He was not.

As good as he looked in a sweatshirt, it was disappointing.

"Not shirtless," she mumbled.

Oliver smiled at her from the side of the bed. "'Morning," he said.

Felicity scrubbed at her face with a muffled yawn that made her jaw crick a little. "Feels like…missing something. Where…here?"

"Isle of Skye," he answered, still looking at her like she was the cutest thing he'd ever seen. "We got here yesterday afternoon, remember? You've been asleep since then."

Felicity sniffed, just realizing why the tip of her nose was so cold. And why she had two pairs of socks on her feet. "Oh," she said, as everything began trickling back to her — along with the persistent stirrings of jet lag. "That makes more sense. I thought I'd slept through fall." A thought occurred to her, and she lifted her head, eyeing Oliver beadily. "Just sleeping?"

Oliver threw her a look, in the vein of _let's not go there_. "I don't think you understand just how asleep you were," he said. "An earthquake couldn't have woken you up."

Felicity raised her arms over her head and flopped back onto the pillows, surveying the sloping wood-beamed ceiling of the cottage roof. "No harm trying," she sighed. "You could have given me a good sex dream."

"You know I prefer the real thing," Oliver said, demonstrating his uncanny ability to make total candor sound incredibly arousing.

Felicity sat up instantly, and the resulting movement made the loose neckline of her washed-almost-to-rags sweater dip past one pale shoulder — which was as good as a flashlight to the eyes, as far as getting Oliver's attention was concerned.

But in a sexy way. Not an _oh-my-god-my-wife's-trying-to-blind-me_ midnight panic. Which would probably end badly, given Oliver's reflex to judo-flip surprise attacks (like he did that one time Roy thought it would be a good idea to yell _happy birthday_ from behind him).

Felicity pretended not to notice, ruffling her short hair with a pretend-yawn and peering doubtfully at the white-framed window by the bed. "The rain's not _too_ bad," she said, as though she couldn't hear the rumbling storm and/or see the silvery sheets of water slapping against the windows with a vengeance. "Maybe we could go for a walk on the beach. I'll just borrow a pair of their — how do they say it — _wellies_."

Either Oliver was too distracted by what was going on with his bodily anatomy, or her English accent was getting better from practice, because he was still staring at the general area around her shoulders.

Had she mentioned that her bras had been feeling tight lately?

"Walk on the beach," Felicity declared, making a show of reaching for her glasses on the nightstand. "So, what's for br—?"

Oliver's reflexes had always been impeccable, but it was still always a shock to witness just how fast he could move when a certain _something_ was involved. Half a second before, Felicity had been about to reach across the pillow, and suddenly —

She was flat against the headboard, Oliver's long, muscular arms on either side of her hips, basically fencing her in.

It was all _very_ startling.

"Oliver?" Felicity said, blinking innocently at him. "Breakfast?"

"In a way," Oliver agreed, in a voice that made it perfectly clear he'd not only regained his verbal faculties, but was more than capable of using them to their full effect.

Felicity leaned forward, until their noses were almost touching. "What did you have in mind, Mr. Queen?" she asked teasingly.

It was a question specifically meant for one answer, and Oliver delivered — in spades. Felicity barely had time to catch her breath before Oliver was kissing her — with the kind of ferocity that made it seem like a miracle they'd managed to behave for as long as they had.

She didn't mind — god — there wasn't anything she minded _less_. They spilled across the bed — a terrifically messy effort from trying to get each other's clothes off while resolutely making out like a pair of teenagers. Oliver's sweatshirt went flying into the clanking ceiling light, and Felicity's sock hit the door with the solid thunk of a well-aimed softball, but the real struggle was trying to stay on the _ridiculously_ narrow bed, which seemed to have the structural integrity of a hammock when it came to anything besides polite sleeping.

Which this unequivocally was not.

Felicity made the mistake of kicking her legs free of her sweatpants, an act that made their balance tip alarmingly towards the side of the bed.

"Oliver, _watch out—!_ "

They — or rather, _Oliver_ — landed with a thud that seemed to rattle the walls of the snug cottage, but suffice it to say that falling off of beds had never functioned as much of a deterrent for their shenanigans.

As a matter of fact, Oliver didn't seem to mind being on the floor, pressed there by the combined weight of his wife and their two unborn children. The two of them were still shaking with helpless laughter while Felicity checked him quickly for signs of a concussion.

"God," she gasped, on the verge of hiccups. "Are we ever going to pull off _graceful_?"

Oliver ran his hands up the length of her bare thighs. "I hope not," he said emphatically, and pulled Felicity down to him for a kiss.

* * *

"Felicity," Oliver said. "It's your move."

The rain was still coming down in opaque sheets, swallowing the mountains and the coastline down the sandy hills. Not that either of them minded — staying indoors had always figured largely into both their plans, and playing chess by the warm fireplace while the weather stormed outside fit that description perfectly.

The chessboard was on the rug, but breakfast had been laid out on the coffee table beside them — partly for convenience, and partly because Felicity, in her fourth month of pregnancy, was reliably, eternally, ravenous.

"Do I _want_ to know what's in this?" Felicity asked, eyeing the slice of black pudding she'd been chewing.

Oliver — who'd bought the groceries and thus had the time to ask — shook his head. "I wouldn't," he recommended. "How's the bacon?"

"Very weird, and _very_ finished," she answered, patting her belly, swathed beneath the folds of his sweatshirt. "Suffice it to say, I'm almost disgustingly full."

Oliver laughed. He was stretched out in front of the fire, and it was easy to reach across and run his hand up the length of her bare calf. "Felicity," Oliver prompted, trailing his knuckles across the back of her knee. "Your move."

Felicity made a muffled noise around the wedge of toast clamped between her teeth and knelt beside him to see the chessboard. He waited for her to flip the board around, but she never did.

"Mm-hm," she said, and shifted her bishop to take his knight.

Oliver blinked at the board. "How did you do that?"

Felicity was back at the coffee table, having retrieved the butter knife, and was smearing a decent amount of orange marmalade onto her already-buttered, half-eaten toast. "I said I didn't like chess, not that I wasn't good at it. Just FYI, I used to make the guys in the MIT Chess Club cry. You sure you still want to keep playing?"

Oliver reached around her to pick up his mug of tea. "Don't get cocky," he said.

Felicity had a half-smile on her face, the one she got whenever someone used a funny word and she wanted very badly to laugh at it. " _Cocky_ ," she repeated. "You know _cocky_ is my specialty. I _eat_ cocky for breakfast."

She chewed and swallowed a loud bite of toast while Oliver hid a grin in his tea. " _Trash-talk_ , on the other hand…trash-talk could use a little work," she said.

Oliver shook his head at the chess pieces. "Felicity, anyone as good with computers as you are doesn't need to trash-talk," he said, and made his move towards one of Felicity's rooks. "Your turn."

He instantly knew he'd done something to get Felicity's attention. She sat forward, staring at the board like it'd spoken German at her.

"How did you do that?" she said.

Oliver looked at her, nonplussed. "It's not my first time playing chess."

She squinted at him doubtfully. "That's an _advanced_ mid-game strategy," she explained, drawing a line around the pieces to show him the crosswise grouping of black and white. "Where did you learn to do that?"

Oliver was smiling now, because he understood the source of her confusion. "What," he said. "You thought I wasn't good at chess?"

"Um," Felicity said, neglecting the piece of toast she was still holding. "Between getting blackout drunk at nightclubs, peeing on reporters and the borderline obsessive post-island crime-fighting? Never thought you had time to play around with kings and queens. _On a chessboard_ ," she added, to mitigate the unintended connotations of her statement.

Oliver stroked her knee with his thumb, more deliberately innocent than ever. "I mean — don't feel the need to hold _back_ , Felicity, not to spare my feelings. I think we both know I can take care of myself. Besides, it's just a game."

"Right." Felicity crossed her legs beneath her. She was on her side of the board, an amusing indicator that she was getting serious. "Just a game."

"Should we make it interesting?" Oliver suggested, still casual. "A bet?"

"Oliver," she said. "Based on the regularly _filthy_ things you let me do to you, and vice versa, I don't think there's anything either of us aren't up for — sex-wise, I mean. Needles and orgies are a hard pass for me, but —"

"—well, then there's no point in playing —"

"— what did you have in mind?" she asked. " _Please_ don't say I have to parade around in fishnets, because that would be crossing a line in this weather."

"No fishnets, I promise." After a pause, Oliver tugged gently on the hem of the sweatshirt she'd borrowed. "We're having two babies," he said.

"I'm aware of that, yes." From the teasing smile on her face, Felicity clearly knew where he was headed.

"I would _really_ like it if I got to name one of them."

Felicity laughed. "Oliver, you're not seriously staking our children's names on the outcome one chess game? Besides — what happened to _you-were-always-going-to-name-the-baby_? Your exact — _exact_ — words."

"That was when I thought there was only one baby," Oliver pointed out. "Now there's two."

Felicity raised an eyebrow, considering it. "Which one?"

"The girl."

Clearly, that wasn't the answer she'd been expecting, but Felicity pouted her lips in a gravely distracting way…before extending her hand. "Fine," she said. "You get to name our baby girl — even though it's a bet on a chess game I'm _clearly_ going to win."

Felicity's efforts at trash-talk were endlessly amusing, and instead of shaking her hand, Oliver surprised her by leaning over and kissing her on the mouth. "Try me," he said, because he had no intention of losing.

* * *

He most certainly did not. Fifty minutes and one hard-fought, messily-close chess match later, Felicity was on her back in front of the fireplace, wearing nothing except the skin she'd been born with.

"How did we end up here?" she queried idly, and Oliver laughed into her navel.

"I think we both knew it was going to end up this way," he said, and Felicity arched her back like a stroked cat when he began to work his way down her body with kisses.

"So I _guess_ you get to name our daughter," she sighed, in mock-weariness. "Don't screw it up and name her — I don't know — _Apple_. Or _Rainbow_. Seriously, who names their kid _Rainbow_?"

"I think people in Hong Kong do," Oliver said, one of the few facts he'd found retrospectively amusing from his time there.

"Whatever — you're not naming our daughter anything weather-related. She is going to have a nice, normal name that doesn't scream _my parents are weirdos_ , capisce?"

"Capisce," Oliver promised, and resumed his explorations.

At two weeks past the four-month mark (Oliver had been keeping meticulous count), Felicity's stomach had acquired the firm roundedness of pregnancy, her skin glowing golden by the fire and criss-crossed with pale stretch marks, as delicately beautiful as silvered lacings of frost…

"It's all the _not_ -bacon," Felicity whispered, and laughed when Oliver tickled her skin with another kiss.

"I love you," he said, making her squirm some more. "I love every part of you."

"I like this," Felicity sighed. "I've been feeling _judged_ by all my pants lately, and the actual stretch marks. I can't handle a world where Oliver Queen stops giving me belly kisses."

Alerted by the self-consciousness in Felicity's words, Oliver shifted back up to lie behind her, reaching for a blanket to drape over them both. "I love you," he said, following the slope of her stomach with gentle hands. "I love the way you look — you're beautiful — even more beautiful because you're carrying our children. Nothing's going to change… _this_."

Felicity twisted back towards him, nudging his chest with her forehead. "You're just saying that," she muttered, but she was smiling when she traced the spokes of his Bratva tattoo with her fingertips.

"I mean it, Felicity," Oliver said. "As long as you still want me."

That made Felicity laugh, a husky sound that made Oliver shift a little closer, feeling her hands slide down to his hipbones. "Since when has Oliver Queen ever _not_ been wanted?" she asked, slipping one leg around his.

It was a playful question, but Oliver thought seriously about the past — but extended — stretches of time he'd had his doubts about Felicity's feelings towards him.

Even in a dream. The thought of what the pit had shown him made Oliver thoughtful, and he absently twisted a shortened blonde curl around his forefinger. It hadn't crossed his mind at the time she'd cut it — that it was almost the same length and look of what it'd been in the hallucination — in a world where Felicity had forgotten him, where she'd loved someone else.

Oliver didn't like to think about that world, and he pressed his lips to her forehead. "In all honesty, I think you not wanting me might hurt more than a sword through the chest," he admitted, silently thankful that he never had to see it — that unhappy reality.

Felicity made a sleepy sound against his collarbone. "I think I'd live," she said. "I'd just get STAR Labs to make me an inflatable Oliver Queen sex doll, or something."

It was such a _Felicity_ answer that Oliver knew she was feeling better. "Can't beat the real thing," he promised, and Felicity rolled obligingly onto her back with a laugh, nothing but challenge in her smile.

"What is this — round three of the day?" she said. "You know I can't turn twins into triplets, right?"

Oliver smiled into her neck. "I thought someone wanted to get the most out of the next five months."

Their fingers entwined on the rug, and Felicity momentarily lost her words as Oliver's face slowly — gently — drew level with hers. They lay still for a moment, heartbeats slowing but strong, sweat beading on skin, joined in more ways than one.

Felicity was completely, unquestionably, beautiful in the warm glow of the fireside, and Oliver wondered — for the millionth time — how he'd ever come to deserve her. They kissed softly, sweetly, pressed for nothing — because they had all the time in the world, safe in their little cottage in the middle of a storm.

"I lied, Oliver," Felicity whispered, her eyelashes sweeping her cheeks as she rocked slowly in his arms. "It's not enough. Us — _this_ — it's not enough for one lifetime. Not even close."

* * *

"You know, for so-called honeymooners, we haven't even left the house once," Felicity said, picking at the knot her phone charger had contrived to tangle itself into.

"Felicity, we agreed," Oliver said, looking up from his book. "No phones. We're on our honeymoon."

"But what if I run into a charger emergency?" she asked. "What if my phone's about to die, and because I couldn't untangle this — _stupid_ — Gordian knot situation, we _lost_ the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to take a rainy beach selfie?"

Oliver raised two fingers. "Simple. We still have my phone — and like you said, we haven't even left the house once."

"I'm sensing from your tone that you plan on changing that," Felicity observed.

Oliver looked back at the ceiling, visibly remembering an itinerary he'd planned out in advance (huh, and here she'd thought jumping each other was the only thing on the agenda). "Tomorrow I'm driving us down to the fairy pools, and we'll see if we can squeeze in some time at the coral beach."

Felicity bit back a smirk at the expression on their friends' faces if they ever heard Oliver use the words _fairy_ and _pools_ in an actual out-loud sentence.

" _Aha_ ," she said, smoothing out the wrinkled wires. She plugged in her phone and pushed it to _Do Not Disturb_ mode, not before she managed to surreptitiously check her texts (thank god for Wi-Fi).

Oh, good. Roy managed to break something. Already.

Felicity frowned at a text from Dick that stressed the extent of which it was Roy's fault (spoiler alert: _a lot_ ).

" _Fe-li-ci-ty_ ," Oliver said warningly, and she hurriedly left her phone on the dresser.

While it should have been theoretically possible to climb into bed sexily and _not_ narrowly miss kneeing her husband in the groin, Felicity didn't see it. "What's the book?" she asked, kissing the side of his head in apology for the almost (and painful) _oopsie_.

Oliver lifted it to show her.

" _Jane Eyre_?" Felicity said, a little incredulously. "Didn't know you were into 19th Century gothic fiction."

Oliver turned a page, and she swore he rolled his eyes a little. "I vaguely remember being asked to read _Jane Eyre_ for a college English class," he said. "Might have been the only class I ever showed up to."

"Not surprising," Felicity said, scanning the small pile of books on Oliver's nightstand. Granted, they were borrowed from the bookshelf in the cottage, but Austen, Keats, Greek myths…it was like Oliver was doing some _very_ belated catching-up on his college reading.

Felicity wondered if she needed to audibly veto the name _Jane_ for their daughter as she slid _Bulfinch's Mythology_ from the stack and propped her head on Oliver's knees, flipping to a story at random.

While most couples probably spent their honeymoon having frantic amounts of sex (ha, all in a morning's work for Felicity and Oliver), reading quietly in bed after an amazing home-cooked dinner while rain drummed steadily on the windows…

It was peaceful. Something they didn't get a lot of, what with the bombshells and big life changes coming one after another. Oliver stroked Felicity's hair, and she turned every once in a while to press a kiss into his hand, both of them working through their respective books.

"I forgot how _violent_ these were," Felicity remarked, a quarter of a book later. "Really puts my dad in perspective when there's a giant god-father — and I don't mean that in the Italian sense — eating his children like I eat won-tons from _Golden Dragon_." She frowned. "Which I now realize is _weird_ , because I'm pregnant and almost a mom."

Fortunately, Oliver was used to her questionable verbal accidents. "He ate them?" he asked, sounding intrigued. She heard him bookmark _Jane Eyre_ and shift closer to read over her shoulder. "I should have shown up to class more."

Felicity shook her head in mock-exasperation at a college-age Ollie Queen. "Fool," she agreed, and laughed when he wrapped her arms around her waist and nuzzled roughly at her hair.

"Read to me," he said, holding her close. "Tell me about Greek myths."

Felicity elbowed the pillows into a more comfortable position and leaned back with her book. "Are you giving me _mom practice_?" she asked. "Because I'm only showing our kids the Disney version of Greek mythology — and by that I mean _Hercules_ , where all the gods look like Crayola life models and kill each other a _lot_ less than I was expecting."

"Just how much Disney are you planning to show our children?" Oliver inquired. "Middling, or borderline-excessive?"

Felicity kissed him on the mouth. "No such thing. And you'd better start looking for a Nemo costume on eBay — because you're dressing up for their birthday."

" _Fantastic_ ," he muttered, enthused at the prospect of dressing up as a neon orange clownfish — if he even knew what _Finding Nemo_ was, and Felicity suspected there was a fifty-fifty chance that he didn't.

Felicity cleared her throat, scanning the page for where she'd left off. "O-kay — back to bloodthirsty immortals and handsy, unfaithful husbands. So much infidelity. Like so, so —"

"—trying to voice a complaint, Felicity?"

"—found it. _Zeus was the mightiest of Cronos's children_ …"

Oliver squeezed her waist, but Felicity only bumped him lightly with the side of her head and continued to read. Straight through the roster of the Olympians, until she reached a part that made her chuckle from the serendipity of it.

" _Apollo and Artemis were the twin archers of the Greek gods. Apollo was the god of the sun, music, and healing; while his sister Artemis was the maiden goddess of the moon, nature, and the hunt._ "

Felicity turned her head to give Oliver a look, surprised he wasn't getting it. "Twins…archers…" she poked at his impressive-instant-shame-by-eye-contact abs, " _Greek gods_? Tell me that's not even a _little_ bit cute."

Judging from the expression on Oliver's face, he wanted to throw the book straight out the window, rented cottage or not. "You want to name our son Apollo?" he said, with the kind of tone that made her think he was silently begging _please don't_.

Felicity snorted. "God, no. I want our son to have a chance at a normal social life. Besides," she said, patting the closed book. "I already know what I want to name him. But you're picking our daughter's name, and I'm officially submitting-slash-hinting-at Artemis for consideration."

Oliver propped his head on his hand, absently stroking Felicity's hip. "Artemis Queen," he said aloud. "I like the idea of our daughter never dating anybody, but it's not exactly subtle."

Felicity prodded him with her toe. "You wanna go there, _Green Arrow_?"

Oliver inclined his head, as if to say _touché_. "Artemis could be her middle name," he suggested. "Just in case she —"

"—hates the name and hates us," Felicity finished. "Probably a smart move."

They were facing each other now, casual reading having morphed into a semi-serious discussion about what to name their children. "Oliver, why do I get the feeling you already _have_ a list of baby girl names?" Felicity asked, watching her husband — the world's worst liar — very closely.

Oliver's expression was a mixture of shifty and _oops_ , and Felicity laughed, reaching up to stroke his face, because hearing (or not hearing, technically) that he'd been surreptitiously researching what to name their child was quite easily the cutest thing she'd ever heard.

"Tell me," she said, toying with the strings on his hoodie. "What's your top choice?"

Oliver glanced at his hands, as though he was shy about telling her. "I liked…Hazel," he said. "Hazel — if we had a girl."

Felicity didn't answer immediately, because she swore she'd felt a little flicker of _something_ , somewhere between belly button and abdomen, too fast to catch — but a little thud of recognition nonetheless, like one of the tiny inhabitants inside her belly was acknowledging a new name.

Felicity rested her palm on her belly, her insides humming with a faint sense of wonder. "Hazel Queen," she breathed, and smiled. "I like it."

"Hazel Artemis Queen," Oliver corrected.

Felicity paused, not believing he was serious. "What about Dearden?" she asked. "I thought it was a family thing."

Oliver lifted his shoulders. "We make our own family," he said quietly. "And I like Hazel Artemis for our daughter."

Felicity bit her lip, trying not to smile too widely (staying clear of smug). "Look at us — one kid down, one more to go, and we even averted a nuclear-level catastrophe. Yay us."

"I know," Oliver agreed, his hand on Felicity's belly too. "What about you? You said you had a boy's name picked out."

His tone was deliberately casual, and if Felicity hadn't known Oliver as well, or cared a _lot_ less, she would have played along. But she knew him, understood him, and loved him for it — because he loved her too much to ask that their son be named after his earliest friend, the man he still missed…every day of his life.

Pre-twin bombshell, Felicity would have been over the moon at whatever they had — boy or girl — but like Oliver, she'd secretly been hoping, maybe just a little bit, that they'd be having one in particular.

A girl for Oliver, a boy for Felicity.

A girl he could name Hazel, and a boy Felicity could name Tommy.

Felicity reached for Oliver's hand, enfolding his fingers within hers, and took a deep breath. "Thomas Andrew Queen," she said. "That's what I want our son to be called. After Dig's brother, and after your best friend — two good, _brave_ , men. Gone, but never forgotten."

Oliver's brow furrowed. "Felicity, you don't have to —"

" _Oliver_ ," she said, and he fell silent when she reached up to hold his face in her hands. "I _want_ to. I want to name our son after his father's best friend — someone he misses, and _loves_ because Tommy Merlyn was funny, smart, kind, loyal…and one of the _bravest_ men his father ever knew. I want our little boy to be Tommy — I think I've known, pretty much since you told me the story with the two of you playing catch and cracking that window."

Oliver shook his head, gently disengaging from her grasp when he sat up. "Felicity, I can't let you do this. You didn't know Tommy. It's not fair to you — there _has_ to be a name you want that's not… _him_."

He was at the edge of the mattress now, staring out the darkened window — classic Oliver Queen move when it came to emotional shutdowns.

Not if Felicity could help it.

"I didn't know him," she admitted. "I wish I did, but I never got the chance. But you're _wrong_ if you think the name Tommy won't mean anything to me, because it does, and it _will_."

Felicity knelt behind Oliver, wrapping her arms around his chest and holding him, a hand over his beating heart. "Tommy died saving someone else, and it wasn't your fault. But Tommy was the one who made you want to be better — to be more than the Hood — to stop killing. Because he believed you could be something else, he wanted you to be…and you did. For him. Not for me, or John, or anyone else. That's what Tommy means to me, someone _so_ important to Oliver Queen — the ridiculously _stubborn_ love of my life — that he became a hero to honor him. Do you understand?"

Oliver clutched silently at her hand, and Felicity pressed her cheek to his throat, and they stayed like that — for what felt like a long time — before he spoke again.

"Did you tell John?" Oliver asked hoarsely. "About Andy as a middle name?"

"Funnily enough, I thought I should talk to the father first," Felicity answered, swaying gently on her heels. "Which _of course_ means I should have gone to John, because he's actually the fa—"

Oliver kissed her before she could finish, and Felicity kissed back, breathing in deep. It was a gentle start, and a gentler finish — if it even was that. Oliver's lips were still brushing hers when he whispered. "If you're really sure," he murmured, and Felicity knew he wasn't talking about their son's middle name.

"I'm sure," she answered, sliding carefully into his lap. "I've been calling him Tommy inside my head for the past week, and it's going to take a _lot_ of behavioral therapy to make me change my ways."

"You never change," Oliver said, and only he managed to make it sound like high praise. "It's why I love you."

"And you _always_ change…once someone talks sense into you," Felicity returned, a little too hastily to make it sound complimentary. "Did I mention that I love you?"

"Multiple times," Oliver said dryly.

Felicity saw the hint of a smile in his eyes, and proceeded to drag it out — albeit dragging its heels and kicking — with a series of kisses along Oliver's jaw and cheek, until they were both laughing in each other's arms.

"Call me crazy, but did we just name our children?" she asked, trying to catch her breath.

Oliver tucked a curl behind her ear, stroking his thumb down the side of her face. "Hazel Artemis…and Thomas Andrew," he said. "I like it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A few random things out of the way first:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> \- Klarolicityswan - I STUCK WITH ARTEMIS BWAHAHHAHHAHA
> 
> \- Pidanka, you gutter buddy, you :)
> 
> Naming the boy Tommy was pretty much a foregone conclusion at this point. I mean, c'mon. Artemis, I like - partly because of Young Justice, partly because I'm weird. Leave me be.
> 
>  
> 
> **Thoughts on 4x01 (I've kinda missed this):**
> 
>  
> 
> \- OLICITY IS THE POWER COUPLE OF THE SHOW. I cannot describe just how much I adored their scenes in 4x01. I think I contributed about 500 views to Olicity Queen's channel rewatching Olicity parts in 4x01.
> 
> \- Important question: why is Oliver wearing boxers in bed? Doesn't matter. In my head, he's not :P
> 
> \- Felicity's pouting face is the most adorable thing I've ever seen. Neck in neck with their "fight" about helping the team.
> 
> \- I swear to god I choked a little when Oliver said the line about no email in Bali. WHEN HAS OLIVER'S VOICE EVER BEEN LIKE THAT? EVER? Cutest and funniest part of the episode.
> 
> \- Everyone needs to stop being mean to Oliver. Seriously.
> 
> \- Lance. Why. Lance. Whyyyyyy.
> 
> \- Oh Laurel. Oh sweetie. Your sister saved a girl from a burning building and promptly ran off to help other people without staying to bask. You don't get points for helping one kid off the floor when a whole train station is going to shit around you. Not only does that make you an attention grabber, it also means you have terrible priorities as a superhero. Also - your mask hides nothing about your face. There, I said it. G'bye. No offence, but I'm starting to hope it's you in that grave.
> 
> \- I'm worried Diggle's suit isn't cool. I don't trust myself, because I'm usually too distracted by David Ramsey's arms, but it looks weird. I'm not entirely sold on the helmet.
> 
> \- WHY WOULD YOU HIDE A DIAMOND RING IN A BOWL OF MARBLES, OLIVER?!


	93. Sun and Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BWAHHHHHH what is even happening with the world? I thought 4x01 killed me dead, but turns out the NYCC sizzle reel (AND THAT UPSIDE DOWN KISS) did it all over again. Goddammit. Must you kill Olicity shippers?!

"Okay," Oliver said, straightening the cutting board and knife with the precision of someone laying out surgical instruments. "Omelets."

Felicity tried her best to mimic his seriousness without cracking. It was one of the hardest things she'd ever done, and she'd once remotely disabled time-sensitive explosive security measures in two hostile gang locations across town.

"I know how to make an omelet, Oliver," Felicity said.

There was a small coughing noise from the kitchen island as Connor turned a page on the manual for the ice cream maker (wedding present for Caitlin and Ronnie). "I think that last omelet gave me heartburn," he said solemnly.

"You don't have _heartburn_ ," Felicity said, prodding the container of chili powder she may or may not have mistaken for saffron further into the spice rack. "You're ten. Ten-year-olds have steel stomachs. Just ask uncle Roy."

Connor flicked a page unconcernedly. "Uncle Roy told me to always keep a napkin handy in case you tried to give me food," he said, in a matter-of-fact way. "I thought he was kidding. He wasn't kidding."

Felicity made a small insulted noise, and Oliver — visibly trying not to crack a smile — put a hand on her back, nudging his son's woefully abused algebra notebook towards him with the other. "Did you finish your homework?" he asked.

"Did it on the train." Connor squinted at the manual in a surprisingly _Oliver_ way, and pointed at the box. "Hey, this says you should keep the ice cream maker away from children."

"You're not a child, you're a truth-bomb-dropping little man, aren't you?" Felicity said, jabbing the spatula at him. "A little man who's going to eat the omelet I put in front of him, no questions asked."

Connor dropped the manual and leaned forward on his elbows, obviously about to talk business. "Give me another coding exercise, and I'll clean my plate," he said, showing every sign that he'd been coached in the ways of artful negotiation.

Oliver sighed, because he'd identified the source of his son's new training. " _Thea_ ," he muttered.

"And my mom's a lawyer," Connor added, with visible relish. "Coding exercise, please."

It was Felicity's turn to pat Oliver's back. "At least he still says _please_ ," she said.

Connor didn't move away when Felicity leaned on the table too (a feat that was proving a little difficult, given the size of her nineteen-week belly), looking him dead in the eye. " _One_ coding exercise, _one_ clean plate. Choice of drink included."

"Chocolate milk," Connor said, and stuck out his hand. "Deal."

Instead of shaking on it, Felicity held out her arms, and Connor knew enough from their previous deal-making experience to guess what that meant. " _Felicity_ ," he mumbled, but she caught the smile on his face when he ducked under her elbows to hug her.

It was a little harder for a short-armed ten-year-old to hug Felicity when she was pregnant, but Connor tried anyway. The bulge of her belly made him bounce off a little, drawing an embarrassing giggle he quickly tried to hide by rubbing his nose. "You're getting big," he said, looking down at her stomach.

"I _know_ ," Felicity agreed, with a wink at Oliver. "Good thing Halloween's coming up — I could probably be a planet…or an _Angry Bird_."

"So what are you gonna be?" Connor asked, with a dubious look at Oliver.

"I'll be one of those…green things," Oliver answered, holding out his son's dog-eared algebra notebook.

"They're _pigs_ ," Connor said, skepticism radiating from his every pore. "Have you even played _Angry Birds_?"

"No, he's too busy being Robin Hood," Felicity whispered loudly, and Oliver shook his head at her in an _I'm-gonna-get-you_ way.

Felicity leaned against the counter with a beatific smile, watching the father-son pair. "You can use the computer in my study," she said. "Try not to _accidentally_ run a hack on my account. It's Kerberos-encrypted, and you're not learning how to hack that kind of security for at least a couple of months."

"'Kay," Connor said, not in the least bit convincing. He snagged his notebook like it was a baton in a race, gave Oliver a quick one-armed hug around the middle, and shot out the kitchen door.

"Call Raisa if you need anything — and _be careful!_ " Oliver said, just before his son's energetic feet reached the stairs.

A door slammed somewhere, and they were alone in the kitchen again. Oliver re-folded the appliance manual and put his son's empty glass of milk in the sink with the rest of the dirty dishes, a small smile on his face Felicity knew wouldn't be going away for a long, long time.

Oliver turned his head slightly when she sidled up to his back, wrapping her arms around his middle and nuzzling at his shoulder.

"You're cute," she said. "Smiling like that because Connor hugged you."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Oliver answered. "I'm teaching you how to make an omelet."

"Which is a laugh-out-loud turn of events, I know," Felicity said, giving him a squeeze around the waist. "But you're smiling because _you_ — not unlike your ten-year-old son — secretly like to be hugged, and you're thrilled that he's here to visit."

Oliver laughed from the ticklish kisses Felicity were pressing into his skin, reaching for a cloth to dry his hands. "Do you ever just _stop_ noticing things?" he wondered.

Felicity made a face over the pepper she was about to slice. "Nope," she said. " _Never_."

Oliver watched her prepare the vegetables, the same smile on his face. "Connor likes you more than me," he said, with nothing but pride in his voice.

Felicity popped a piece of green pepper into her mouth, still slicing. "Of course he does," she said, straight-faced. "I'm very likable."

"Mm." It was Oliver's turn to stand behind her now, and Felicity bit her lip at the touch of his hands on her bare shoulders. "You're _very_ easy to love."

"Is that right," she said, tipping her head back as his lips found her throat. She left the knife on the cutting board, bracing her palms against the counter in an effort not to shudder — or forget that the straps on her maternity dress were very easy to slip down.

"Why did I choose this dress?" she whispered, and Oliver laughed into her neck, his fingers still exploring.

"It's a nice dress," he murmured. "But it might look better on our bedroom floor."

There was a faint rattle at the kitchen door, and Felicity almost bashed her head into Oliver's when she started in surprise.

"Oh, I am sorry, Oliver — Felicity," said Raisa, holding a tray of empty mugs she'd retrieved from Felicity's various napping-slash-reading spots around the house (oops). "I can come back."

Oliver shook his head, the two of them shifting into a more appropriate position by the stove. After a month, they were almost used to the Queen family's old housekeeper walking in on them at inopportune moments (the big house and a locked bedroom door helped, but it was an inevitable consequence of being young and having no self-control).

"It's no trouble, Raisa," he said, leaning on the counter with a warm smile he reserved especially for the woman who'd partly raised him in his old home. "Sorry about the extra work — we're practicing how to make eggs."

Felicity snorted, eating a pepper. "You're practicing. _This_ —" she gestured at the ingredients and the waiting pan "—might as well be new to me."

"No trouble, no trouble," Raisa insisted, bustling over the counters and drying dishes with the kind of skill that made Oliver's obsessive neatness a lot less of a mystery. "Your son is a good boy — he asked me to teach him Russian. Don't worry — no bad words, I promise."

"Maybe just _one_ bad word," Felicity said, in a mock-whisper.

The corners of Raisa's eyes crinkled when she smiled, and she did smile quite a lot when it came to the things Felicity said — as unfiltered and awkward as they were. She pinched Felicity's cheek, affectionate as a mother. "If your husband gets impatient, you call me and I'll teach you how to make good food."

Felicity nearly choked on her mouthful at the expression on Oliver's face. "I'll call you when I send him to the hospital with food poisoning," she laughed.

Oliver ducked his head to steal the piece of pepper between her fingers. "That's not happening," he said. "I'm a _very_ good teacher."

"Good student, too." Raisa straightened Oliver's collar — which Felicity may or may not have helped pull askew — and rubbed his arm. "Tonight we make apple crumble, yes?"

Oliver nodded. "I'll pick up the braeburns in the afternoon," he promised.

Felicity patted her stomach. "The three of us can't wait," she said, already thinking about dessert. "How much begging do I need to do for the caramel sauce?"

"Anything for this _solnyshko,_ " Raisa said, pinching her cheek again. "I want your babies to be born smiling."

"That's the idea," Felicity agreed, privately wondering if babies did anything except scream bloody murder when they eventually made it out.

Raisa blew Felicity's belly a kiss and straightened a vase of flowers on her way out of the kitchen, humming softly under her breath.

" _ _Solnyshko__ ," Oliver said, without having to be asked. "She called you a _little sun_."

His expression showed that he agreed wholeheartedly with the pet name. In spades.

" _Myshka, lapochka,_ now _solnyshko_..." Felicity said, scooping a dollop of butter into the frying pan. "If and when I eventually learn how to speak Russian — I'm going to have cuteness coming out of my ears."

Oliver kissed the side of her head. "You're assuming that's not already the case," he said, in her ear.

Felicity was well aware that her body wasn't exactly in a state to be _graceful_ , but somehow Oliver helped her feel that way, the way he looked at her when she slid between him and the counter, resting her arms on his shoulders. "Who knew Oliver Queen was such a good sweet-talker?" she said. "Always full of surprises."

Oliver's hands were moving slowly up her waist, drawing her nearer still. "Fifty years is a long time to be married, you know," he said. "I have to keep things interesting _somehow_."

"Saving the city with the Justice League does get boring," Felicity agreed, and just like that, they were both smiling into the kiss.

Which of _course_ ended up going somewhere. Because it was them, and while they probably knew _so_ much better, they unequivocally didn't want to.

"This omelet is gonna be so burned," Felicity whispered, but Oliver made no attempt to stop her hands from going lower.

"Worth it," he answered, and they laughed.

* * *

"I'm pretty sure there's something in the wedding book about pregnant women _not_ being allowed to be bridesmaids," Felicity said, fighting the stubborn clasp on her necklace.

Oliver wordlessly reached up to help her fasten the chain, his fingers brushing gently against the nape of her neck. "Caitlin's marrying a man who should have been vaporized in a particle accelerator explosion," he reminded her. "I think the book can stay out of this wedding."

True. Especially given Caitlin's almost-husband was also technically part-fireball, and shared a brain with a genius physicist. "How was the bachelor party?" she asked, curious. "You didn't come back smelling like strippers and Scotch — what gives?"

Oliver chuckled. "Cisco's the best man," he said, as if that alone was self-explanatory. "What kind of bachelor party do you think he planned?"

Felicity looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully. "Something with an indecent amount of cheese-smeared food, cult movies, and video games?"

"Tacos, just about _every_ game console on the planet, and laser tag," Oliver confirmed.

" _Studs,_ " Felicity laughed. "Who won?"

Oliver looked at her like he was surprised she'd even needed to ask. "I teamed up with John," he answered. "As if anyone else stood a chance."

"Barry has super speed, Oliver," Felicity said dubiously. "You and John may be the guy's idea of a dream team, but there's _no_ way you won."

Oliver held up one hand. "Five out of seven rounds. I'm sure ORACLE could get you the security footage if you wanted to check."

Felicity hip-checked him. " _Such_ a bad wedding guest," she said, and laughed when Oliver wrapped his arms around her, careless of his not-meant-to-be-creased dress shirt and her bridesmaid's gear.

Facing the mirror in her husband's arms, Felicity adjusted the necklace they'd bought in the Isle of Skye, a delicate silver pendant with a heart of sea-green glass, one that hopefully matched the lacy blue bridesmaid's dress she had on.

"How do I look?" she asked, eyebrows raised.

Oliver shifted a curl from her cheek, and she knew what he was going to say just from the look in his eyes — the one that had an unfailing ability to make her knees melt. "Beautiful," he whispered.

Felicity ducked her head shyly and smoothed her hands over the baby bump, which most definitely showed through the dress. Carrying twins meant that she was easily bigger than other expecting moms at five months, and even with a husband like Oliver, and Lyla being in a similar state (albeit at seven), Felicity still felt a little self-conscious about klutzing her way through the wedding in flats and a maternity dress. Oh, and the no booze part. The no booze part felt like a big deal-breaker.

But one of her closest friends was getting married, and her stomach was already rumbling at the thought of the finger food.

Felicity smiled and reached for Oliver's tux jacket. "You," she said, smoothing the sleeves over his shoulders and arms, "are the sweetest husband a mini-orca could want — and yes, please imagine I phrased that in a less PETA-concerning way."

Oliver laughed and gathered her face in his broad hands. "You're beautiful, Felicity," he said. "I love you."

It might have been Felicity's imagination, but the sun seemed to blaze a little brighter, turning the colors behind her closed eyes into a thousand shades of fiery gold. "I love you too," she whispered, and felt Oliver smile against her upturned lips.

* * *

"We gotta stop meeting at these things, man," Barry said, shaking his head in mock-exasperation. "Snack?"

Oliver eyed the loaded plate he had in his hands, piled with at least ten different kinds of starter. "Which one?" he asked sarcastically.

Barry peered at the glass Oliver was holding. "Is that champagne? What happened to the no-drink pact?"

"Still standing." Oliver took a sip. "It's sparkling cider."

"Dedication," Barry declared. "Speaking of — where's your lobster?"

Oliver frowned. "My what?"

Barry opened his mouth, looking like he wanted to explain, but gave up halfway and shook his head. "Felicity," he said. "And you _really_ need to start watching more TV."

Oliver searched the crowd in the hotel ballroom and found her relatively easily. She was on the dance floor near the bride and groom, partnered up with Diggle — although their dancing looked more like a conversation while holding hands, while moving occasionally from side to side.

"I need to learn that dance," Barry said enviously. "I'm always stepping on Iris."

"As long as you're not expecting my brother to teach you," Thea interrupted, joining the conversation with a smaller plate of food. "By the way, Roy's trying to figure out how Dick hacked into his Instagram account and filled it with selfies — I think you might have to umpire a grudge match between the two of them."

Barry wrinkled his nose. "Like… _naked_ selfies?"

Thea and Oliver simultaneously shot him near-identical looks that said, _really?_

" _No_ , weirdo," Thea answered. "Roy just likes making funny faces at his phone — now his Instagram's full of them. And according to him, Dick Grayson is going to die a very painful death…which _might_ get messy if Zatanna steps in."

Barry sighed. "You guys are so lucky," he said enviously. "You have someone who can do _magic_."

"Careful there, Harry Potter," Thea said, straightening the strap of her orange dress. "Your inner nerd is showing."

"More importantly," Oliver added, stressing for emphasis, "it's all the Justice League. Members show up where they're needed."

"Although it kinda ruins the whole _superhero_ thing if they have to take a train to get there first," Thea pointed out.

"Oh, Cisco's working on that. And Professor Stein." Barry almost dropped his plate when he gestured in excitement. "They're studying radiation energy levels to try and develop a means of subatomic transportation between two open channels."

"So…teleporting," Oliver translated. "Barry, that's science fiction."

Barry snorted. "For real?" he said, and pointed at himself. "I run faster than the speed of sound, and we were literally _just_ discussing someone who can do magic by speaking in reverse. Compared to that, teleportation's not that weird."

" _Sure_ , Barry," Thea said. "Try not to blow anything up and give yourself a new set of powers, okay?"

Barry's eyes glowed. "Like a _tail_."

Oliver rolled his eyes and set his glass down on a table.

"Where are you going?" Thea asked.

Oliver kissed his sister's cheek. "Going to find my wife for a dance."

* * *

It was a beautiful fall evening, and everyone had just waved Caitlin and Ronnie off to their European honeymoon, before retiring to sit (like the old and pregnant people they were) in chairs while the rest of the wedding party continued the festivities.

"Doesn't count," Iris said, turning the bouquet of white roses in her hand. "Caitlin was _aiming_ at me."

Felicity had to hold her belly to sit forward in her chair, but it would take a lot more than a pregnancy to stop her from teasing Barry. "Surprised you're not a dust trail over there, _Fastest Man Alive_ ," she said, and he widened his eyes at her in warning. "Or is someone ready to settle down?"

"Ha-ha," Barry said, perched on the table behind Iris's chair, which showed off the fact that only he would wear Converse lace-ups to a wedding. "You and Oliver got married on a rooftop in the middle of a thunderstorm — your whole relationship pretty much redefines being _slow_ at settling down."

Unfortunately, Oliver had gone to get drinks for them, which meant that he wasn't around to witness (and react to) the dig on Barry's part, leaving Felicity to metaphorically defend her husband's honor.

" _Hey_ ," she said, rubbing her belly for emphasis. "We're playing catch-up, all right? Two babies in one go — what more do you want?"

Iris elbowed her boyfriend affectionately. "Exactly," she said, winking at Felicity. "Don't listen to Barry — I think a boy and a girl sound adorable, and I _demand_ to see pictures."

Barry mumbled something unintelligible in response, but as soon as Iris's back was turned, he desperately mimed a throat-slashing motion. _Be cool_ , he mouthed, because Felicity was one of the few people who knew where he was keeping the engagement ring.

Cisco gave an explosive (and diversionary) cough to help his best friend out. "So, _Paris_ , huh?" he said. "I hope Ronnie doesn't incinerate any pigeons while he's there."

"Or — you know — the priceless artwork," Felicity added. "In the _Louvre_."

"Right," Cisco said, nodding in a highly unconvincing way. "That."

"So, Felicity — how are the babies doing?" Iris asked, half to Felicity, half to her baby bump. "They started kicking yet?"

Felicity shook her head, smoothing a hand ruefully over the curve. "The doctor says everything's fine, but they're being really quiet."

Lyla must have sensed the worry-vibes, because she leaned over and rubbed Felicity's arm in reassurance. "You're only twenty weeks along," she said. "Sara didn't start kicking until week twenty-two, and look at her now — she's getting fast enough to outrun her dad."

"Only at bath time," Diggle emphasized. "Just so we're clear, I'm gonna be one of those dads that greets their daughter's dates with a loaded Glock in his belt."

" _Baseball bat_ , sweetie," Lyla said, patting his knee. "Baseball bat."

"Better than a bow and arrow," Felicity muttered, silently imagining the glare (and deadly, drawn weapon) Oliver would use to greet anyone (boy or girl) who showed up to their front door looking for Hazel.

"You should probably talk to him about that," Barry said. "Tell him to tone down the _Green Arrow_ -ing."

Felicity turned in her chair, scanning the crowd for her husband. "Will do," she said absently.

Oliver was waiting at the bar for the drinks, and just as Felicity raised her hand to wave, she watched a dark-haired woman sidle up and lean suggestively on the bar top while whispering something to him.

Felicity wasn't like _that_. She laughed things off and made inappropriate jokes — she _didn't_ do obsessive jealousy, or the whole thirty-eight-ways-to-put-whoever-down routine. She was friends with pretty much all of Oliver's old girlfriends, the exceptions being Isabel Rochev (dead), and Helena Bertinelli (insane, and super-max prison). A part of Felicity knew there was nothing to worry about — of course there wasn't, never with Oliver, but the other part of her was fat, exhausted after a long day, pumped full of confusing pregnancy hormones and more orca-like than ever, watching a stranger — tall, leggy, and model-like to the extreme — flirt with her husband from a distance.

It took all of two seconds — even less — for Oliver to step away, his wedding ring gleaming as he said something in brusque refusal. Felicity turned back to their friends, as guiltily as if she'd been caught watching something she shouldn't have.

But judging by the dark look on Diggle's face and the direction he was facing, Felicity guessed that Oliver's encounter hadn't escaped his notice either.

"Would anyone be mad if I started a conga line?" Cisco wondered aloud, mercifully oblivious to the hot ball of lead stewing in Felicity's stomach.

It was moronic and hormonal to the extreme, but an unsuspecting and very handsy woman was about to find porcupine flatulence on every digital device she owned.

* * *

"You're being uncharacteristically quiet," Oliver observed, closing the door to their hotel room behind him.

Felicity shook her head, slipping off her flat shoes. She'd been about to lean forward and pick them up, but quickly realized that her pregnancy belly was getting in the way, so she settled instead for nudging them under a stool with her foot. Oliver turned to strip off his jacket, but Felicity knew he was watching her in quiet concern, radiating the Queen equivalent of anxious-vibes.

Which — for some unknown reason — only made her feel worse.

"Felicity, what's wrong?" Oliver went on his knees in front of her, his hands tentatively on her belly. "Does it hurt? Do you need a doctor?"

Felicity shook her head again and leaned forward in her seat. "I may have done a morally questionable _something_ ," she said.

"What?" Oliver looked bewildered. "What happened?"

Felicity made a face. "Porcupine farts."

Oliver's eyebrows contracted in a frown. "What?"

Ordinarily, Felicity would have shot up from her seat fast enough to nearly bowl Oliver straight over, but gravitational considerations and the weight of two babies was enough to stop her from pacing, and all she could do was squirm guiltily in her seat.

"I don't destroy people's lives," she said, as if to preface what she was about to tell him. "I know I say I do, but it's a nuclear option — a really, _really_ , easy nuclear option — anyway, that's not the point. When Ray stole your company, I hacked his phone, tablet and all his computers and replaced his data with gassy porcupines, which sucked — but again, was kinda the point —"

"—Felicity —"

The words were suddenly spilling out of Felicity at double-time, which was saying something, given her usual verbal staccato. "I saw the woman flirting with you at the bar and I tracked her down off the guest list and possibly-almost-definitely hacked into her phone, computer, and replaced everything with audio files of porcupines farting," Felicity said in a rush, and sucked in a deep breath to stop her vision from spinning.

Oliver stared at her. "You can do that?" he said, which wasn't the answer she'd been expecting, like at all. "But your computer's in your suitcase —"

" _I know_!" Felicity threw up her hands in exasperation. "But that kind of stuff just doesn't stop evil geniuses like me, and you _know_ that."

"And the woman —"

"—is a bad word I do _not_ like to use, except when describing myself with Wi-Fi," Felicity said, her voice muffled by her hands.

Oliver was touching her knees. "I didn't even know you saw her," he said. "Nothing happened, Felicity, I promise. Are you really —?"

"No, I'm not — because I believe you," Felicity said, trying (and failing a little) not to let her eyes well up. "If I had a penny for every time a woman looked at my husband like she wanted to eat him up with a spoon, I'd have a Bond villain mansion in the Swiss Alps. I laugh it off — because I like to laugh at everything — and because I know it never means anything. And I _know_ this doesn't either, but I'm fat and I'm tired — and the babies aren't kicking and I'm _so_ worried that something's wrong — and I'm not saying being pregnant sucks, because it makes me happy, _deliriously_ happy — but having sex with a basketball for a stomach sucks, and sometimes I feel like picking up a meat saw and hacking at a tree for firewood, which makes _no sense whatsoever_ and in conclusion, I just want to go to bed so I can sleep until February."

Felicity drew an explosive breath once she was done, feeling her insides squirm like she'd ingested the world's iffiest bowl of roadside chili.

"Felicity." Oliver softly disengaged her hands from her face, and he had the grace not to do it like he was defusing a high-risk explosive device. "Breathe. The doctor said you're fine, and the babies are healthy. We just have to give it some time."

"What's number two?" Felicity asked, in a very small voice.

"I don't even know who she was," Oliver said. "And I don't care. She's not you. She doesn't smile at me the way you do — or laugh…and make me fall in love all over again, without even trying. Your voices aren't the same, because I could listen to you talk about open-source TCP sensors and virtual encryption sequences forever. She's not the love of my life, not the woman I married in the rain, the person I want beside me for the next fifty years — and more, if she'll have me. She's not the woman carrying our two beautiful children I can't _wait_ to raise alongside her. She's not the first face I want to see in the morning, and the last thing I want to see before I fall asleep."

Felicity sniffed, wiping the heels of her hands across her eyes. "She sounds like a weirdo," she muttered, and Oliver laughed quietly, dabbing a tear from her face with his thumb.

"I love you, Felicity." He'd risen on his knees, and their faces were level with each other, finally eye to eye. "And I _wish_ that I could show you just how beautiful you are to me, but…" He let the word hang.

"But?" Felicity asked.

Oliver smiled, as if he knew a secret she didn't. "But I know that you're as stubborn as I am," he said, "so I'll have to show you."

Before Felicity could even get a question in edge-wise, Oliver passed an arm under her knees and picked her up off her seat, with just as much preamble and ceremony he'd used when carrying her into the Queen mansion.

" _Oliver_ ," Felicity said in protest, because the amount of water weight she carried — not to mention the two unborn children and all the food she'd ingested as a result — was probably enough to pull some kind of muscle.

"Felicity," Oliver answered, lowering her gently onto their bed. "Don't you trust me?"

"Always —"

"Then relax."

Felicity bit her lip to fight the smile rising to her face, because her sly genius of a husband was quoting the things she'd said right back to her. Which meant two things.

The first — was that Oliver Queen wholeheartedly meant what he said.

And the second —

As much as her nerve endings tingled with anticipation, it was still a shock to have Oliver's hands slip skillfully beneath her dress and pull her underwear down over her legs.

Kisses on her thigh, working slowly upward. "A promise is a promise, Mrs. Queen," Oliver said, and Felicity let herself reach for him.

With practiced fingers, she undid snaps and buttons and pulled folds from folds, leaving Oliver's clothes where they fell, easing herself higher in the bed and taking him with her.

It was _different_ , not being able to slip out of her clothes the way she was used to. For what felt like the first time, Felicity saw herself as all elbows and swollen ankles, graceless from having to catch her breath at every turn. She was distended all over, overstimulated, the little aches and soreness of pregnancy making it impossible to lose herself the way she usually did with Oliver.

Goosebumps prickled on her skin, and she grasped at the sheets behind her head, nervous — even after all their time together — that it wasn't going to be the same.

Oliver must have noticed, because he was slower than usual, even more deliberate in the way he stroked her, gentled her. His lips found the familiar places behind her ear and in the hollow of her throat, but his mouth lingered on the pink stretch marks on the curve of her belly, and the bluish veins showing prominently on her swollen breasts, following each of them back to her heart.

His hands fit the same way they always had on her hips, and Felicity found herself moving with him — a gentle shifting of two pieces meant to fit together, until they were face to face. Felicity was holding onto the headboard, Oliver lying beneath her, and she was still clumsy, still uncertain, even as he ran his hands over the roundness of her belly, the heat of his breath blooming hot across her chest.

_Are you sure?_ she seemed to be asking, a question Oliver answered when he took her face in his broad hands and kissed her. It was the kind of kiss that made Felicity forget where she was for a moment, insecurities be damned, and it was the resulting sensation of single-minded, uncomplicated _want_ that emboldened her to bring them together with a sinuous curve of her hips.

They groaned into each other's mouths, but Felicity was unashamedly, enthusiastically loud, dizzied by the uncompromising heat two people could share, and in love — so in love — with how Oliver knew her well enough to remind her of it.

"I love you and I trust you," Felicity whispered, laughing softly — feverishly — between kisses. "I love you, Oliver."

It was the same words from their wedding, simultaneously an apology but also a promise, and there was nothing more that needed to pass between them, not when they could read it all in each shift and change in each other's faces. Except —

"I love you and I trust you," Oliver said simply, as they began to move. "Always, Felicity."

* * *

Felicity resurfaced, much, _much_ later, to a softly sleeping Oliver, curled around her with his arms draped loosely over her belly. She turned, careful not to wake him, and traced the outline of his lips in the darkness.

He was tired — he had to be — after all the work he'd done to make sure Felicity felt nothing but pampered, and loved, so loved. She shifted closer still, as close as her belly would let her, and let her eyes drift shut.

They flew open almost a second later, and Felicity sat up, blindly — clumsily — pushing the sheets aside so she could feel herself. Her chest rose and fell from the surprise, because she hadn't imagined it…had she?

The books always said it was _fluttering_ , like the wings of a butterfly, making it sound like something as light as a feather being drawn across bare skin, but —

Felicity gasped when she felt it again, and the noise was enough to make Oliver stir.

"Felicity?" he said hoarsely, and she could sense the fear in his voice. "What's wrong? Does it hurt?"

Felicity jerked her head, because nothing could have been further from the truth. She seized his hand and pressed it to the lowest curve of the thin robe, trying to catch it — just one more time. It seemed like an interminable eternity, waiting for that feeling to flicker past — every second feeling like she was waiting for lightning to strike a second time —

_Please_ , Felicity thought. _One more. Just one more.  
_

"Felicity —"

Oliver caught his breath, because like Felicity, he'd felt it. It was like the twitch of a muscle, somewhere deep inside, and even though she'd been waiting — not even knowing what to expect — she knew it when she felt it. Not a flutter — nothing as elusive and barely-there as the brush of papery wings, but a _real_ , strong heartbeat.

Life.

Oliver's expression was full of innocence and wonder, and it was a look Felicity knew she would remember for years to come, a life-changing moment. "I can feel them," he said.

Felicity nodded, hardly daring to believe. "The babies are kicking," she whispered, a hand over her mouth.

She was effervescent, she was golden, she was in love. Seeing the babies on the screen and hearing their hearts beat had made them real, but feeling her children's first kicks had her as close to being a mother as she could possibly be.

" _Thank you_ ," Felicity breathed, kissing Oliver's hands and laughing when he kissed her back, her eyelids, her nose, her cheeks. "Oh god, thank you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random stuff: 
> 
> Whew, beat the chapter count for You're His Hope.
> 
> Brought Raisa back - AKA the mother figure who was SO important to Oliver and basically his Alfred Pennyworth, who then promptly disappeared after the pilot episode. Fantastic. Anyway, she's helping them take care of the Queen mansion, so hopefully that answered some questions :)
> 
> Felicity being hormonal was something that had to come up at some point.
> 
> Advance warning: I think the next update might be the last to Legacies, so just a little heads-up. I might wrap it up by the middle of next week or sit on the update until next weekend.


	94. Almost Christmas

Not for the first time that day, Oliver wondered how and why his house was full of people. Since the move back to the Queen mansion, he'd assumed — naïvely, in hindsight — that the days of being overwhelmed by the sheer amount of trouble his friends and family could get themselves into were over.

They were not.

"Okay, you will _never_ hear me say this again, but maybe we should have painted the babies' room on our own," Thea said, as the sounds of Roy and Dick's perpetual bickering (this time with the added bonus of paintbrushes) reached their ears.

Oliver wasn't inclined to disagree, but he adjusted the position of his stencil and began filling in a portion of the tree trunk with white paint. "I should have known that throwing Felicity a baby shower meant having extra hands around the house for a few days," he said. "Besides — it's Christmas."

" _December_ ," his sister corrected. "Careful there, Ollie, people who aren't me might start to think you're a huge sap for the holidays."

Despite his best efforts, Oliver felt himself grin into the paint can, and his sister gave an exaggerated gasp. "My big brother's smiling — someone call the Justice League, because the world — is — _ending_. Oh wait, that's _us._ "

That earned her a stripe of white paint across her wrist, and Thea's paintbrush instantly slapped a gob of bright orange paint onto the back of his neck. Thea shrieked when Oliver raised his brush to retaliate, and the siblings showed every sign of regressing back into the kind of thing Moira would have called _antics_ , a pronouncement that would have earned them lengthy assigned tasks on opposite ends of the house.

"Are we starting a paint fight?" Dick called over his shoulder. "Because — _about time_."

The threat of unwanted paint splatters on the pale green walls was enough to make Thea snap back to planning mode.

" _No,_ " she said loudly, holding up her brush like she would a flechette. "If anyone gets so much as a _speck_ of white paint outside the lines, you're disinvited to Christmas. Like — _forever_."

Oliver swore he heard Dick mutter something about spending Christmas in Gotham, but the retort was quickly drowned out by Roy stealthily adding a stripe of paint down the back of Dick's shirt.

Thea turned back to the orange sparrow she was stenciling onto a branch with a shake of her head. "Sometimes I wonder what mom would have done if she'd gotten to know Roy better."

"Mom liked Roy," Oliver said. "She might have given him the _look_ , but he'd still be invited to the tree-trimming."

Thea groaned. "Oh, the _look_ ," she said, holding her forehead. "Mom was _so_ good at that. She could make you reconsider your life choices just by raising her eyebrow, I swear."

The thought of their mother made Oliver pause, and lean back on his hands. "Mom loved Christmas," he said quietly.

Thea bumped her head lightly on his shoulder, slipping her arm around his. "I miss her too," she said, into his sleeve. "She'd have loved the idea of you and Felicity living here — having the babies — hosting… _Christ-nukkah_."

Oliver laughed. "If mom was still living here, I don't think I would have moved back at all. She didn't always see eye-to-eye with Felicity, and—"

"—you _love_ your wife," Thea finished for him. "Yes, Ollie, believe it or not — the hand-painted babies' room and the _disgusting_ lovey-dovey look in your eye whenever you look at Felicity is self-explanatory."

"Didn't know it was so disgusting," Oliver said lightly. "You should have told me."

"Like you would have listened," Thea answered. "But maybe… _maybe_ it's a little cute. Because of Felicity, though. Definitely because of Felicity."

Oliver nudged his sister back. "Mom would have been so proud of you," he said. "You went from crashing cars to running a successful nightclub, to saving the city. I don't think any of us could have predicted that."

Thea chuckled. "You know what else I couldn't have predicted?" she said. "My idiot big brother still calling me _Speedy_ even after I became a superhero."

Oliver kissed the top of his sister's head. "Sorry, Speedy. Old habits. Maybe you'll be the Red Arrow one day."

His sister gave him a playful shove. "Before or after I beat you in the sparring ring?"

"Pray for a Christmas miracle," Oliver said, as Roy let loose a particularly loud profanity after a paintbrush smacked him in the face, "because that's not happening for a long time."

* * *

"So do you think the babies are just punching each other in there?" Cisco asked, rooting noisily through a box of Christmas ornaments that Oliver may or may not have mentioned were antiques.

"I—"

"—and if so," Cisco continued, oblivious, "which one do you think is winning?"

Felicity's hand went reflexively to her belly, which had officially reached whale-proportions, give or take seven months in. There was usually something going on in there, sometimes just little kicks that made her feel like her insides were being tickled (those were kinda fun), but other times it felt like there was a baby fight club going on in her uterus, and the two of them were busting out full-on roundhouse kicks and judo flips.

Those were less fun, especially at 3AM when she was trying to sleep.

"Hazel," Felicity said, just as her hand received a particularly strong thump. "Yeah, definitely Hazel. I'm pretty sure Tommy's getting his ass kicked in there."

"I still think you should have named one of your babies Cisco, but I respect your choice as parents — baby hormones aside — and humbly request that you name your next child after me," Cisco said solemnly, a vibe difficult to establish given the fact that he was holding a spangled gold star in one hand, and a fat baby angel in the other.

Felicity released her breath after a particularly solid kick, privately boxing up the possibility of a third child for later consideration. "Sure, Cisco," she said. "So how are things with Laurel?"

"Well —" Cisco was on tiptoes, trying to reach the top of the tree "—she invited me to Christmas dinner at her house. Should I be worried?"

"You mean about the police captain dad with a working gun, and the sister with assassin training and a sonic scream?" Felicity made a face at a weird splotch on the menorah she'd dug out of her _Holidays_ box. "'Course not, and I should _probably_ get this polished."

She set off towards the kitchen in search of a rag, but not before Cisco managed to overturn something by accident, probably at the mental image of Captain Lance's overprotective scowl and/or highly functional sidearm.

"Raisa?" she said, pushing through the kitchen door, "do you know where the silver polish is — _oh_."

Instead of their housekeeper, _alone_ , Felicity found her mother in deep conversation with the woman who knew where the bodies were buried in the Queen mansion — so to speak. _Bodies_ , as in the times she'd seen-slash-heard things. Slightly inappropriate things from the newlywed couple.

" _Felicity,_ " said Donna, beaming at her over what looked like a tray of prototype holiday treats. "Cookie?"

" _Yes_ ," Felicity said immediately. "Wait — _no_ — silver polish. Silver polish first."

"I'll do that, Felicity." Raisa wiped her hands on her perpetually white apron and bustled over. "Polishing is bad for the babies."

"Did my mother tell you anything?" Felicity asked, as the menorah changed hands. "Blink once for yes."

Donna waved a half-eaten Star of David cookie. "Oh, Felicity, don't be silly," she said airily. "I was just asking Raisa what it takes to keep a house like this going."

"One physically capable superhero and one supremely unhelpful pregnant lady?" Felicity asked.

"Powerful vacuum cleaner," Raisa said, tapping her nose. "Lifesaver. The polish is in the back — I'll go fetch it."

"Thank you, Raisa," Felicity said, and eyed her mother suspiciously for signs that the two of them were in cahoots about something — embarrassing childhood-memory-related somethings.

"She's so _sweet_ ," Donna had started on a tree-shaped cookie, which made Felicity (for understandable, shapeless reasons) feel envious of her perpetual bombshell of a mother. "She was just telling me how Oliver used to be such a runner. The things he used to do to get away from bath-time — of course _now_ , I'm sure all you'd have to do is tell him to get into the tub and he'd have all his clothes off in a —"

"— _mom_ ," Felicity had both hands over her belly. "They have _ears_ now."

"Then they should recognize their Nana's voice, shouldn't they?" Donna cooed, her palms on Felicity's baby bump. "Hi, Tommy, hi, Hazel — I'm going to be babysitting you every time your mom and dad want to have s—"

This time, Felicity's warning reiteration of _mom_ sounded like a demonic death rattle.

"— _ome_ private alone-time, sweetie, that's all I was gonna say!"

"Mom, you're killing me here — and my uterus is currently being inhabited by two kickboxing babies who don't know what it means to _sleep_."

"Oh, sweetheart, I know." Donna eased her daughter into a chair and began to rub her shoulders soothingly. "Here, have a cookie, and I'll rub your back."

Felicity bit the head off a cranberry-orange Santa Claus, too tired to be weirded out by decapitating Father Christmas. The combined effect of a sugar rush and her mom's shoulder massage helped her forget that she wanted nothing more than to be asleep, facedown in her big white bed, hooked up to an IV line full of coffee.

Donna kissed the side of her head. "Oh, I know I talk too much," she said, kneading the tension from Felicity's back. "I'll try to tone it down for the shower — I promise."

Felicity reached up to squeeze her mom's hand. "I _love_ your talking," she insisted. "And I swear, some part of me thinks your concern for my marital sex life is sweet — probably — but maybe throw in a few cute baby stories? Y'know, just to even it out a little?"

"Cute baby stories," Donna said thoughtfully. "But you were such a quiet baby, Felicity. All you did was sleep and make dirty diapers for me to change — you didn't start asking questions I couldn't answer and dismantling all the household electronics until you were _seven_ , at least."

"Really?" Felicity looked at her swollen belly with interest, not just because the twins seemed to have gone quiet for a little, as if they were listening too. "So there's a fifty-fifty chance Hazel and Tommy won't — I don't know — turn their parents suicidal?"

" _No_ , of course not." Donna pinched Felicity's cheek fondly, making her giggle like a child. "Have you seen your husband? With his eyes and your smile — those babies are gonna make you fall in love, even if they're covered in vomit and breastfeeding until you can't feel your n—"

" _Mom_ ," Felicity said, but she was laughing. "You were so close to finishing a story without making it weird!"

"Was I?" Donna leaned over and planted a big smacking kiss on her daughter's forehead. "I love you so much, Felicity."

Felicity smiled. "I love you too, mom. Thanks for being here."

"I'd never miss my daughter's baby shower," Donna admonished. "Think of all the fun presents you're gonna get!"

Felicity glanced nervously at the ceiling, because she was pretty sure she could hear her friends — AKA part of the non-existent guest list to the baby-shower-slash-welcome-party — bickering through the floorboards. "Right. Presents," she said, rubbing her stomach. "That's not nerve-racking at all."

" _Felicity,_ " Donna said warningly. "I know that look. Don't even think about calling some kind of Justice League emergency on me, because I will get you in that chair and opening presents — I don't care if everyone's covered in alien slime."

Felicity squinted at her mother. "You didn't get me anything, did you?" she said suspiciously. "I told you just being here was enough."

Donna slid off the stool and started opening cupboards, assembling the ingredients for what looked like hot cocoa. "Don't be silly, sweetie, of course I heard you," she said, spooning powdered chocolate into mugs. "I'll just save that big box of lingerie I bought you for your birthday."

"I _so_ hope you're joking," Felicity said, grave-faced despite the prospect of something warm and chocolate-y.

"Oh, Felicity, you know me." Donna shook a bag of tiny marshmallows. "So how many do you want? Say when."

* * *

The house was well and truly noisy by the time Felicity managed to escape into the cold grounds, carrying a thermos inside her robe and crunching through the frozen pathways in her Ugg boots.

Oliver wasn't painting the babies' room when she checked, which was basically perfect thanks to Thea's near-militant precision when it came to designing and executing artistic intent. It might have been a weird request at first, Felicity wanting the room to have the same color scheme as her birthday party, especially since said party had ended up being crashed by her super villain dad and given her a dislocated shoulder to boot, but pretty was pretty, and she wanted white trees painted on mint green walls.

Perks of being pregnant — people didn't argue. Not even when the people in question had perfect muscles and deadly training in something- _itsu_.

Early December meant the garden was mostly withered shrubs, with the occasional bloom of color from the Christmas roses (which weren't _actually_ roses) Oliver had painstakingly planted through the summer and fall. Felicity gave the cherry tree a fond pat on her way past, but she knew where her husband would be, at this time of the year.

The gravestones were in a quiet spot behind the house, surrounded by a bed of soft green grass and perpetually shaded by a copse of trees. Winter had dulled the greens and sharpened the gray in the honey-colored stone, but it was far from an unfriendly place, especially not with the flowers Oliver was in a habit of leaving, every week, regular as clockwork.

He was on his knees in the grass, brushing dead leaves from his father's weathered headstone. A bunch of fresh red roses glowed at the foot of his mother's grave, which had already been cleaned with meticulous care. All this he did quietly, efficiently, his breath steaming the still air in puffs of white.

"Hey," Felicity said softly. "Got time for a break?"

Oliver looked around. "Felicity," he said, visibly surprised. "It's cold — why aren't you inside?"

"Why aren't you?" she asked, well aware that he wanted a break from the chaos just as much as she did.

Oliver smiled and got to his feet, brushing bits of twig and leaves from his jeans. Felicity stood on her toes to kiss his cheek when he got close, settling in under the arm he wrapped around her shoulders. "Maybe it was a good idea to skip the Christmas party this year," he admitted, chafing her sleeve as they stood together in the cold.

Felicity reached up and picked at a bit of orange paint in his hair. "I can see that," she remarked. "So who was it — Dick or Roy?"

Oliver examined a similarly-colored stain on his collar, as if he'd just noticed it. "Thea."

"Good _girl_ ," Felicity said, and Oliver gave her forehead a ticklish kiss in response, making her laugh.

"What's this?" he asked, tapping the thermos.

"Ah." Felicity unscrewed the cap with some difficulty, and sweet-smelling fumes rose from the mouth of the flask when she did, dissipating in the cold air. "Hot cocoa," she said. "I even put in some marshmallows."

"You're remarkable," Oliver said, and she poured them each a cup to share.

Felicity snuggled close to him while she drank, cupping the warm plastic in her hands. "So what do you talk about?" she asked curiously. "When you're out here, I mean."

"With my parents?" Oliver sounded surprised. "How did you know I talk to them?"

Felicity gave him a look. "I know you," she said, simply. "And — willingly or not — my more talkative tendencies have _probably_ rubbed off on you, which means you probably talk to your parents every week, rain or shine."

Oliver made a thoughtful sound between sips. "Well, I've never shared hot chocolate with them," he said, a smile half-hidden in his cup.

"No, because that would be weird," Felicity agreed.

Oliver rubbed her arm absently, gathering her closer still. "I told them we're expecting Hazel and Tommy," he said. "I told them about painting the babies' room — about Raisa — and you."

Felicity pressed her cheek to his chest. "Complaints?"

Oliver's lips brushed her forehead. "Not even one."

Felicity sniffed, hiding her glowing face in Oliver's shirt. "It's still early. We haven't even had our first Hanukkah-slash-Christmas yet."

"I think Thea called it _Christ-nukkah_ ," Oliver suggested.

Felicity laughed into the wintry air. "And I didn't think it was possible to love the Queen family any more."

" _Our_ family," Oliver corrected.

"Speak for yourself," Felicity teased. "Legally, my name's Felicity Smoak-Queen."

"It _is_ ," Oliver agreed, and Felicity tipped her head back for his kiss. "But you answer to Mrs. Queen."

* * *

"Well, that wasn't too bad, was it?" Felicity said, folding up the baby-sized Green Arrow suits from Cisco (pajamas or regular outerwear unclear).

She was sitting in the newly-painted nursery, deciding what to do with all the leftover cake (easy) and the gifts (less easy, and a lot more folding) their friends had gotten for Tommy and Hazel.

Oliver finished tying up a trash bag full of wrinkled wrapping paper and picked up the second half of Cisco's gift. "I could have lived without this," he commented, inadvertently pressing a button that made the multi-colored lights blink on.

Thea — sitting cross-legged on the cream rug — stuck a forkful of leftover cake in her mouth and peered at Cisco's personalized invention manual. "It picks up your baby's crying noises and translates them into alerts. Apparently it has four settings," she read. " _Bored, Hungry, Tired,_ and _Annoyed._ Huh. Wonder if it works with adults."

"I'm not testing it," Roy said immediately, still working on the leftover cookies.

Felicity smiled at the picture of Diggle and Lyla's newborn daughter, which had come attached to a beautiful twin bassinet and an emergency baby kit, stuffed with everything from diaper rash treatment to nail clippers. "She's gorgeous," she said, and Oliver smiled at the photo too, sitting on the arm of her chair.

"Andrea Diggle," he said. "It's a good name."

Felicity leaned her head on his arm. "Having second thoughts?" she asked. "We can probably still change the names. It's not like I'm _dead set_ on them or anything."

Oliver kissed the top of her head. "I'm stubborn — you know that. It's Tommy and Hazel."

"Good answer," Felicity murmured.

"Oh, Felicity, honey — you have _such_ nice friends," Donna said, patting a white-and-chrome baby formula dispenser, which bore an almost _agonizing_ resemblance to a coffee machine. "I wish this existed when I was doing late-night feedings."

"The air bubble prevention and temperature settings are going to be a lifesaver," Oliver said, a wholly un-ironic statement that made everyone (except Donna) turn and stare.

"O- _kay_ ," Felicity said, hastily checking the stack of baby books beside the armchair to see if Oliver had already speed-read through them. "Who are you and what have you done with my husband?"

Roy pointed in mock-horror. "Call the Justice League. Oliver Queen's been body-snatched — he's been replaced by a _stay-at-home dad_."

Everyone else was amused by the joke, and Roy stayed grinning for about half a second before one well-aimed (and very thick) parenting book hit him in the stomach.

"We should invite Captain Lance out for brunch one day," Felicity said, over the sounds of Roy trying not to choke on a mouthful of cookie. "Thank him for the gift."

Oliver nodded, smoothing his hand over the rocking cradle the Captain had given them. "I think we can do brunch here," he said, visibly running through the recipes in his head. "Eggs Benedict?"

Felicity grinned and held out her arms. "Help me up so I can kiss you."

Oliver one-hundred-percent did, but it was a short-lived moment, interrupted by a loud cough from Thea.

" _Guys_ ," she said, in the middle of hanging up the twin mobiles from Zatanna and Mari. "I'm right here."

"Sorry," they said, but Felicity felt Oliver squeeze her somewhere she did _not_ want to disclose.

" _Well_ ," Donna said, with an exaggerated yawn. "I think that's my cue to go to bed. Kids, are you coming?"

Thea hopped down from the footstool. "Don't worry," she said, gesturing between herself and Roy. "She doesn't mean you two."

Felicity kissed her mother's warm cheek. "'Night, mom," she said. "See you in the morning."

"Sleep tight, sweetie," Donna rubbed Oliver's arm, the in-law duo smiling like they shared a secret. "You too, Oliver."

Felicity rolled her eyes in good-natured exasperation at the perpetual _inside joke_ vibe between her husband and her mother. The dark-wooded twin cradles had been lined up end to end against the wall, and she braced herself on one of the rails to fix the mobiles — hung with elegant birds that looked and moved uncannily like the real thing. She stroked one of the lifelike wings with her fingertip, smiling at the simplicity of it. "Perks of having friends who can do magic," she said, and turned to survey the rest of the room.

The walls were pale green and painted with creamy white trees, with the occasional splash of bright color from the orange sparrows perched on the branches. There were squashy armchairs near the cradles and a rocking chair near the bassinet, too many diapers to count just lined up inside the cabinet, and a changing table set up on the dresser.

"Call me crazy, but I think the room might actually be ready for two Queen babies," Felicity said, a little surprised that it wasn't their usual last-minute scramble and sheer dumb luck. "Frack, is this what it feels like to be adults?"

Oliver leaned thoughtfully on the cradle beside her, his arm pressing against hers. "It's missing something," he said thoughtfully.

Felicity looked around, her eyes wide. "What?" she asked. "Oh god, I'm already a terrible mom. Is it big? Is it important?"

Oliver laughed. "Look in the cradle," he said.

Felicity frowned, because she could have sworn it was empty. Except now there was a broad white box waiting in each of them, and Oliver looked like he'd just singlehandedly pulled off being Santa Claus.

"Oh, you _suck_ at lying," she said, holding her belly as the babies kicked furiously inside her. "What is it? Please don't say baby Green Arrow onesies, because we already have those."

Oliver's arms came around to encircle her, and he pressed a soft kiss into the curve of her neck. "No, but I think you'll like it."

Felicity shook her head in exasperation at her over-achieving husband, but all of that went cleanly out of her system when she opened the boxes.

Because nestled inside were two knitted baby blankets, soft green and softer red, one with an _H_ , the other with a _T_.

"It's a little too late to change the names," Oliver said. "I started them a while ago."

Felicity ran her fingertips down the soft wool, her mouth wide open in shock, because if there was one thing she'd never imagined Oliver Queen doing (besides the whole cooking and dad thing), it was knitting. With yarn. And needles. "Oliver, they're beautiful. Did you really—?"

"Your mom helped." Oliver was practically grinning. "We were talking on the phone—"

"—wait, you talk on the phone?"

"—and she mentioned that you had a no-gift rule, so she taught me how."

"You learned to knit over _Skype_?" Felicity said incredulously. "What was _I_ doing?"

"Well." Oliver kissed her shoulder again, quietly thinking. "You were sleeping a lot in the afternoons — I had to find _something_ to do. Figuratively speaking."

Felicity didn't want to cry, but holy _frack_ was it hard not to well up a little. "How many times are you and my mother going to team up and surprise me?" she asked, and a tear splashed onto Oliver's wrist. "Because I'm going to need _so_ much advance warning if these are the kind of surprises you're going to pull."

"Felicity Queen," Oliver said, and she turned to look at him.

There was nothing but earnestness in his eyes now, and she knew he meant every word from the soft kiss he pressed to her lips. "I am _never_ going to stop surprising you," he promised. "Every day, for the rest of our lives."

There were a thousand things Felicity wanted to say to that, but for the moment (blame the baby hormones), she could only think of one. She pressed her forehead to Oliver's with a smile, feeling each kick in her belly like the beat of a powerful heart. "I can't wait," she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo-hoo. Oliver knits, it's fun to imagine almost-Christmas, and the story's wrapping up soon. On to the next update :)


	95. The Justice League

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloooo. Sorry the update's a little late, but in my defence, it's the last one, and I think my brain was trying to drag its heels. Ah, my procrastinating brain...

Felicity shifted in front of the glowing computer screens, trying to get her back into a position that didn't feel like there was a five-and-a-half-pound baby (times two) pressing on her spine.

"ORACLE, send SCPD the completed blood work and list of possible suspects. Straight to Det- _Captain_ Lance's inbox, please," she said, shifting her focus seamlessly from one keyboard to the next. "And bring up that pattern analysis request from Bruce — I'm in a code-breaking mood tonight."

"Of course, Mrs. Queen."

ORACLE's home screen dissolved into a summary of the problem Bruce had sent over two nights before, and a quick once-over of the contents was enough to establish why a notoriously solo-flying vigilante was requesting help from the Oracle.

"I've traced the file's origin back to LexCorp — which suggests that an Epsilon decryption sequence might be appropriate," ORACLE said. "Shall I attempt it?"

"Epsilon leaves a traceable fingerprint — we need to go full stealth on this one." Felicity flexed her fingers and started to type, trying not to smirk at the appropriateness of working in a dark lair. "Use double-shielding. Our tracks need to be covered."

"Understood, Mrs. Queen," ORACLE answered. "I see that your husband just entered the elevator from the study, should I delay him?"

Felicity's head whipped around. " _Frack_ ," she said. "Yes — delay — say it's an emergency."

"The elevator was just inspected a month ago."

"Well, _lie_."

"Lies are a human imperfection I was not designed to imitate, Mrs. Queen," ORACLE reminded her cheerfully, just as the light above the elevator door turned green, and the doors slid open with a soft _whoosh_.

Ever-oblivious to Oliver's probable angry-face, ORACLE was unfailingly polite in its greeting. "Good evening, Mr. Queen," it said. "I hope you're having a pleasant night."

"ORACLE," Oliver replied, just as courteous. "Could you turn on the lights please? My wife has a habit of working in the dark."

"Certainly, Mr. Queen."

The lights in the rest of the lair hummed to life, and Felicity winced at the sudden brightness of the underground room. How certain vigilantes could work in complete darkness and not manage to have their eyes watering like crazy after the fact — Felicity had no earthly idea.

She _did_ , however, know how to switch between windows so that Oliver wouldn't see what she'd been working on. At three in the morning. On a Wednesday. When she was supposed to be _resting_ , or whatever.

" _He-ey_ ," she said, swiveling innocently around in her chair. "I thought you were asleep."

"You _knew_ I was asleep," Oliver corrected. He was still in the no-shirt-and-sweatpants combo he'd worn to bed, and his bare feet padded softly on the ground as he made his way over to her workstation. "Felicity, what are you doing?"

Felicity blinked, trying to look as confused as humanly possible. "Sleepwalking?" she said, because what the hell.

Oliver — understandably — remained unconvinced, and reached past her for the keyboard. "Really," he said, and tapped a key that switched the blank home screen to the scrolling window of decryption algorithms.

"Where'd that come from?" Felicity said, patting her nine-month belly in the hope that the thought of his future children would distract Oliver from putting her back in bed. " _Freaky._ "

Spoiler alert: it didn't work. Oliver folded his arms and leaned on the edge of the table. " _Felicity_ ," he said. "Part of taking maternity leave is so that you can rest. It's bad enough you still come into HQ —"

Felicity raised her finger. "—I think you're supposed to call it the Watchtower now, just _FYI_ —"

"— _and_ sneak into the lair all hours of the night to do work that can _absolutely_ wait until you've had the babies," Oliver finished, disregarding the non sequitur. "Felicity, no one expects you to keep going until the minute you go into labor. It's okay to take a break."

"First of all," Felicity said. " _That_ is rich, coming from you — father-of-the-babies who came in late and smelling like C4 to the last two ultrasounds. Second, I'm just helping out from home, because part of the reason we have this in our basement — instead of a kinky sex den or ridiculously decadent wine cellar — is so we can always stay linked up to the Justice League. Third, I _would_ be sleeping, but I can't, and you don't want me waking you up every three minutes when I change positions. It's annoying…and _unfair_ — I mean, what if all the lack of beauty sleep makes you lose your _Handsomest Man Alive_ cover look? I could _not_ live with myself if I let that happen."

The last one was a semi-random moment of inspiration, but very true — as far as Oliver's just-rolled-out-of-bed look. On her it looked mildly _Tales of the Crypt-keeper_ , but on him…

Felicity's eyes were glazing over. _So_ not the point.

If Oliver could tell what she'd been thinking (probably), he showed no signs of it. "Felicity," he said gently, "I don't mind if you wake me up. The babies are going to do it anyway, and at least I'll know I'm doing what I can to help you feel comfortable."

Felicity squirmed in her chair, trying to shift the discomfiting pressure of a baby resting against her spine, along with the minor gripes of her uterus doing a little something called _Braxton-Hicks_. Typical — just when her baby oven had gotten too crowded for the twins to do anything more than kick (which was an improvement over their standard karate), mini-contractions decided to fill in for the sleep deprivation brigade.

"Not sure that's an option," Felicity summarized, with whole-hearted confidence.

Oliver kissed the side of her head. "I know," he murmured. "I'm sorry."

Felicity leaned against him, feeling the reassuring thud of his heart under her cheek. "You're gonna stay here until I go back upstairs, aren't you?" she guessed.

"Well, you're as stubborn as I am," Oliver agreed. "I thought we established that the last time I found you down here."

Felicity groaned in mock-weariness (and actual weariness), and patted Oliver's chest. His gorgeous, shirtless, could-talk-her-into-doing-anything chest. "Fine, you shirtless genius. We're going back to bed, but I _warn_ you — my feet are going to be insanely cold while the rest of me is going to be insanely warm, I don't think I've slept in one position since October, and if I kick you — anatomical location notwithstanding — I do _not_ apologize."

Oliver helped her out from the chair without being asked, rubbing her back soothingly as they walked (he walked, she waddled) towards the elevator. "I think I can live with that," he said.

Felicity kissed his bare shoulder. "My hero."

* * *

"Can we make this the new rule?" Felicity asked, tearing a piece of fried chicken between her fingers. "Every time you catch me in the lair — I get deep fried comfort food, no questions asked. How's that sound?"

Oliver set the hot pan in the sink and turned on the water. "Does deep fried kale count?" he asked, rolling up his sleeves (because he had enough common sense to not deep-fry without a shirt).

Felicity made a face. "Bleh. Never mind — sorry I asked."

Oliver laughed and started on the dirty dishes with his usual quiet efficiency, while Felicity slowly (but very determinedly) worked her way though the plate of fried chicken he'd made her. At three in the morning.

She didn't know if there was scientific evidence that anything fried in oil had tangible effects on reducing pre-labor discomfort, but eating whatever her food cravings demanded was feeling like a pretty good idea.

"My post-pregnancy diet is going to _suck_ ," she predicted, smearing pesto and bean dip onto the chicken (long story). "I know I complain about being pregnant, but having two babies in my belly gave me _the_ perfect reason to carb-load. I don't think I can handle being healthy after they're out."

"Felicity, I don't think you really ate healthy before they were _in_ ," Oliver said reasonably, with a turn of awkward phrasing that was entirely Smoak-approved.

"Very true," Felicity said, swallowing her pesto-Mexican-bean chicken with a ponderous gulp. "So I guess that means you should keep the fried chicken coming."

"As long as it stops you from blowing up the kitchen," was Oliver's game answer, and Felicity restrained herself from fist-pumping.

Because she'd managed to secure herself a lifetime supply of late-night fried chicken — out of her husband's (definitely rational) fear that that she'd incinerate his childhood home if she ever tried to cook.

It made Felicity want to kiss him — a _lot_.

But, baby steps. Felicity reached out and tugged gently on Oliver's shirt. "Sit with me," she said. "Dishes later."

If Oliver was suspicious of her motives, he had the good grace (or deep-seated interest) to play along. He dried his hands on a rag and Felicity pushed the sheaf of glossy school leaflets further along the kitchen island so he'd have a place to put his arms.

What she didn't expect was a few post-its and a pen to come rolling out of the stack.

"Just to satisfy my curiosity here," Felicity said, nudging the pen with her fingertip like it was a pressure-sensitive grenade. "How old do you think our children are? Unborn, or ready to start preschool in September?"

Oliver smoothed his hand over the pile — an endearingly protective gesture impossible to miss. "John gave them to me as a joke," he said.

Felicity paused in the middle of reaching for the pesto jar. "So naturally, you decided to demonstrate your _vast_ understanding of the term by going full _Beautiful Mind_ on leaflets for…" she glanced at the front page "… _pre-_ preschool. Is that a real thing?"

"Apparently," Oliver said, tapping his knuckles against the paper. "I've been thinking about who we can ask for recommendation letters, and —"

Felicity almost snorted her piece of chicken. " _Oliver_ ," she laughed, "just send them a picture of you in the suit — _maybe_ Speedy and Arsenal and Freelancer _-_ slash-whatever-codename-Diggle-finally-caves-into, and we'll be gold. Stop _worrying_."

"I want to do this right," Oliver said, with enough earnestness to make Felicity wonder if it was even possible to love him any more than she already did. "If that means doing the application forms, and the wait-lists, and the —"

"—recommendation letters," Felicity finished, shifting closer to him with a smile. "Interviews…mini-muffin bribery baskets…"

So maybe she didn't have the school-related sweet talk strictly in the bag, but Oliver was too experienced to let unintentional humor ruin the moment. Felicity rested her arms on his shoulders when he leaned close (as close as her belly let him, anyway), smiling at the touch of his hands on her thighs.

"Are you sure?" he asked carefully. "Does it hurt?"

Felicity shook her head. "Nope," she promised. "Positive."

* * *

Oliver wondered — a mildly intriguing thought in the midst of everything else — if restraint was even remotely in their nature. "I'm starting to think this is the only way to get you back to bed," he whispered, tugging Felicity's pajama bottoms past her legs.

" _Starting?_ " she teased, showing him the slight scratches on the headboard behind them. "Good thing you're not particularly attached to our bed — I think we're well on our way to breaking it."

"Plenty of bedrooms," Oliver answered, his words muffed by the inside of her thigh.

"That's…" Felicity was practically squirming by the time he got her underwear off, completely familiar with the trajectory of his upward kisses. "Very… _true_ — _oh_ —"

Oliver grinned when he heard the crick of her fingernails dragging on the wooden headboard. She'd been sensitive — especially so — in the last few weeks, to the point where it took even less time than it usually did to get her gasping and incoherent under his tongue.

Today she managed to get out a mostly-complete ramble about quantum circuitry before breaking off with a sound that was almost pained. It was enough to make Oliver stop teasing her, and shift back up to check if she was all right.

Felicity's face was turned into the pillows, but when Oliver brushed the hair back from her face, he quickly realized that she was laughing — shy, euphoric breaths of laughter. "Eight weeks," she whispered, a hand over her mouth. "I don't think I can last that long without you."

"That's a little premature," Oliver observed, running his hand idly up the taut skin of her belly. "You might get tired of me after giving birth."

Felicity slipped her hand down to join his, linking their fingers together as her other hand stroked his hip. "You remember when we thought having twins might slow us down in the sex department?" she asked.

Oliver thought about it. "No," he said, honestly.

Felicity kissed the back of his hand. "Exactly," she answered. "Placenta and doctor-mandated pelvic rest might do it, but in all honesty — Oliver Queen, I don't think it's possible for me to get tired of you. Tired _from_ all the stuff we do in bed, maybe, but that's not really the same thing…I don't think."

Oliver buried his smile in her neck and nudged her legs apart, recognizing it for the invitation that it was. " _Tired_ ," he repeated, and Felicity arched her back with a moan when he entered her. "The way I remember it, I'm the one who has to keep up with _you_."

Felicity gripped the headboard with one hand, reaching behind with the other to press him against her all the more urgently. "Argue…this…'nother time," she managed, showing every sign of losing her words as they slipped back into the familiar motions of lovemaking. "Okay?"

Given Felicity's heightened state of stimulation, it was maybe a little unfair — teasing her by maneuvering his palm between her legs, but Oliver did it anyway, and luxuriated in the immediacy of her descent into verbal incoherence. "Whatever you want, Felicity," he agreed, feeling her shudder around him. "Whatever you want."

* * *

"The overhaul of all security checkpoints in the Glades manufacturing locations are going according to schedule, but —" Diggle broke off from his report to stifle a huge yawn behind his hand, and Oliver immediately got to his feet in search of the coffeepot.

Diggle's eyes were still watering when Oliver poured straight into a waiting mug — no sugar, no milk — and set it on the glass table between their chairs. Diggle took the cup with murmured thanks, and Oliver used the chance to observe his best friend under the bright morning sunlight. Andrea Diggle was two months old, and evidently sleeping as much as a baby her age would — which was to say, not.

"You," Oliver said, "look radiant."

Diggle laughed into his cup, which came across as more of a wheeze. "Take a good look at your future, because in one week, we are going to be in the _exact_ same boat. Except — thanks to your overachieving personality — you'll have two screaming babies who do _not_ understand the correlation between _night-time_ and _sleep_ , and twice the number of dirty diapers. Then _we_ —" He reached for the coffeepot and refilled his mug, raising it to Oliver in a mock-toast "— can turn our weekly security briefings into a club for Sleep-Deprived Dads."

Oliver had to laugh. "Look, John, I'm sorry that Felicity and I caught up with you and Lyla on our first try, but having twins really doesn't have anything to do with —"

"—the _ample_ amount of time you two spend tearing each other's clothes off?" Diggle finished, one eyebrow raised in an expression of perfect sarcasm. " _Sure_ , Oliver. Sure."

Oliver didn't have much in way of a rebuttal to that one, so he settled instead for pouring himself a cup of coffee as well. In response to Diggle's surprise (given what he knew about Oliver not drinking coffee to support Felicity during the pregnancy), Oliver said, with utmost casualness: "You know this is decaf, right?"

The bad word Diggle responded with was enough to make Oliver's executive assistant — a jumpy young man seated just beyond a glass wall — leap to his feet like he'd heard a gunshot.

Oliver set his cup down, finding it hard to keep a straight face. "I suppose asking you to consider taking some time off from the League is —"

"—as out of the question as you hanging up the hood and mask forever," Diggle said, matter-of-factly. "Sooner or later, something always brings us back. Besides, with you and Felicity taking a few weeks off to settle in with the babies, someone needs to make sure we're staying on HIVE."

"John, we've hit two of their outposts in the last month," Oliver said. "The intel we're getting from Darhk and Amanda is slow-moving — but we're on the right track. It's a long game we're playing here, but I'm with you — until the end."

A smile flickered across Diggle's tired face. "For Andy."

"And everyone that matters," Oliver nodded. "Gone, but never forgotten."

Their mugs clinked together, and Diggle leaned back in his seat, shaking his head in amusement. " _Take time off_ ," he repeated. "You won't last two weeks sitting still. A part of you is always gonna be with the Justice League. Maybe it's a call of duty — maybe you just like the Robin Hood gig — but I can't think of anyone I'd rather have beside me when we take down HIVE."

It was Oliver's turn to smile. "You should really get some sleep, John," he said, over his coffee. "You're not making any sense."

" _Ahhh_ ," Diggle groaned, pouring himself a third cup. "So maybe you should toss out this decaf crap and get your EA to brew us some _real_ coffee."

* * *

One of the perks, Felicity supposed, of being on legally-mandated maternity leave (Ray's words, not hers) was that she could go visit her husband at work — bringing an indecent amount of Big Belly Burger in tow.

She walked into the elevators at QI with a smile at the security guard — who'd buzzed her through the security checkpoint on pure familiarity alone — and waited as the steel box rose smoothly to the top floor of the office building. The whole swollen-feet thing meant that she was doing a lot of stomping in flats, which wasn't exactly the biggest ego boost in office settings, where everyone somehow towered over her by at least a head, but her rumbling stomach was too concerned with the greasy burgers inside the red-and-yellow paper bag, patiently awaiting consumption.

Which was a nice way to describe what could only be accurately termed as _scarfing_.

Ravenous scarfing.

Felicity was practically a drooling cartoon wolf by the time she pushed through the glass doors on the thirty-second floor, in search of Oliver's office. Unfortunately, she'd conditioned herself to automatically avert her eyes from anything coffee-related, which meant that she didn't see what she was walking into until she hit it head-on.

_Oof_.

"Dear me — are you all right?"

Even holding her nose and trying not to tip over (the combined weight of two five-and-a-half pound babies was a little hard to balance out), Felicity recognized the quintessential Britishness of Queen Incorporated's CFO.

"Felicity," said Walter, holding her arm to steady her. "What an unexpected surprise — I wasn't aware you were stopping by to see Oliver."

" _Walter,_ sorry — I was trying to avoid the coffee," Felicity explained lamely, and held up the grease-stained bag (hopefully none of which got on Walter's suit). "Bringing Oliver lunch, you know. He works out too much, and I want to keep him looking _kinda_ human by feeding him something unhealthy every now and then."

If Walter Steele thought this was a weird statement to make, his unfailing British manners and his familiarity with Felicity's questionable verbal history kept him from commenting. "Why don't I walk you to your husband's office?" he offered. "There's an awful lot of coffee around this office, I'm afraid."

As if to demonstrate his point, an intern marched past with a steaming carrier mug, which Felicity tried (and failed) not to stare at. "Why not?" she said, and took Walter's arm, like they were walking down a busy street, not the corridor of Oliver's office building.

"And how are you?" Walter asked. "I must say you're looking radiant."

"Really?" Felicity said. "I mean — thanks. It's the sweat. Scratch that — it's the weather. Fifty degrees really _does_ something to a woman's skin. Glowy…stuff."

"Oliver tells me you're having twins," Walter said, unflappable to the last. "He's really quite proud — talks of nothing else. It's rather endearing to watch, actually."

" _Endearing_ ," Felicity repeated, silently adding it to the list of never-before-heard words used to describe Oliver Queen in relation to his children. "Did he tell you what we did to the babies' room? I'm surprised he hasn't printed out a block of pictures for a scrapbook yet."

Walter seemed amused by the idea. "No, but I imagine Oliver's made his old home quite comfortable for his lovely wife. Your family's move back to the mansion caused quite a stir in the papers, if I recall — I do hope you find the house a livable abode."

" _Livable_ is putting it very lightly, Walter. The house is beautiful, and I'm sure Oliver'll be happy to show you what he's done to the garden once things…settle down," Felicity said, rubbing her nine-month belly thoughtfully. "Maybe in five to six years — I have _no_ idea how this kid thing works. Don't tell Oliver."

Walter laughed and patted her back in a reassuring way. "Oliver's actually been discussing the possibility of working from home, aside from the paternity leave, of course. I told him we could manage just fine at Queen Incorporated, so it appears you'll have your husband at home for quite a while."

"Really?" Felicity said, finding it hard to believe that Oliver would be okay with taking time off work. "Didn't know he had it in him to sit still."

"I'm hardly the expert on such matters, but children have a way of altering one's priorities," Walter said. "Oliver undoubtedly has his heart in the right place, and I say this with utmost faith, Felicity — the both of you will be _wonderful_ parents to two beautiful children."

It was a short walk from the elevators to Oliver's office, and Felicity caught sight of him through the glass doors, sitting with Diggle in some kind of discussion (good thing she'd bought a few extra burgers). Walter folded his hands in front of him. "If I may, Felicity, I'm sure Moira would have thought so too," he said. "She would have been very glad to see the house as well-used and loved as it is now, and my only regret is that she couldn't be here to see how utterly happy you've made her son."

Felicity smiled at the sincerity in Walter's voice. "Do you think so?" she asked.

"Truly." Walter kissed her cheek, and held the door open for her. "The best of luck to you both."

* * *

"This is weird, right?" Felicity said, around a mouthful of spring roll. "I mean — it's broad daylight, and you guys are all suited up, doing your crime-fighting parkour…it's like me sitting in front of a box of Cronuts and _not_ eating them. It's _weird_."

As usual, Roy Harper excelled at missing the point completely.

"Felicity, are you eating _takeout?_ " Roy asked, apparently scandalized by the sound of her crunching on Golden Dragon spring rolls.

Felicity chewed while she typed, wondering if his affront was partly because he thought Chinese takeout had sub-par nutritional value for an expecting mom, or because she was technically — _technically_ — supposed to be on maternity leave.

"Well, the thing about _not_ being in the field means I don't have to choose between food and — you know —"

"—grievous bodily harm. Yeah, I get it," Roy grumbled. "But you and Oliver are off until the babies get here. We even scrambled the frequencies —"

Felicity almost inhaled her noodles when she laughed. "That's cute, but it's going to take a _lot_ more than scrambling frequencies — which _I_ coded, just BTW — to stop me from coming into work, especially when the District Attorney's been kidnapped."

Roy sighed. "Oh good, you found out — and here I was worried the Oracle wasn't omniscient."

"Well, not _omniscient_ ," Felicity corrected modestly. "Just — _mostly-scient_. Maybe point-five percent less _scient_ when there's Chinese takeout. Also, they called the League hotline — of course we're answering."

"Since when do we have a hotline?" Roy sounded thunderstruck.

"When you stop using the terabyte-equipped HQ computers to go on Instagram and Twitter, _maybe_ I'll let you near the answering machine," Felicity said. "Until then, I have zero confidence you won't be using the official phone line to crank call the mayor's office."

"Fair enough," he said. "And _how_ is Oliver okay with this? I thought you being the size of a —"

"— _watch it_ —"

"… _stick insect_ meant that League-stuff was off-limits."

Felicity stirred her container of chow mein. "Well, fortunately for you, you're not the one who shares a bed with him, and I can be _very_ persuasive," she said, not without the requisite level of smugness.

There was a gagging noise on Roy's end. " _Felicity_. Really? You're nine months pregnant."

"There's an armored truck heading your way, _Arsenal_ , so do you _really_ want to get into the detailed logistics of how I have sex with my husband — which is still great, in case anyone's asking — or are you gonna jump off the roof and do your hero thing?"

" _Fine_ ," Roy said, and she heard the telltale shuffles of him getting into position. "But that was traumatizing."

"Says the person about to back up off a five-story rooftop," she pointed out.

" _Hey_ , I'm—"

The comms crackled, and Diggle's voice came online…accompanied by the familiar staccato of gunfire. "I'm tailing Beta truck, and I don't think they're happy about it. Before I jump the roof, _please_ tell me someone's getting ready to blast the wheels."

"Ow." Felicity clutched at her ear. "Semi-automatics?"

"Kalashnikovs," Diggle answered. "Wasn't aware you were on comms today, Oracle."

Felicity snorted. "Did the Justice League actually think I was going to sit this one out?"

"I told them that you wouldn't," Diggle said flatly. "But I thought it'd be funny to see them try."

"Mm-hm," she said, scrutinizing the map. "Scanning traffic cams. The kidnappers have three vans — shielded — that means no way of knowing which one the DA's in. I'm reading remote-trigger frequencies from Beta and Alpha trucks, but not Gamma, which means —"

"—the other two are decoys waiting to blow," Diggle said.

"Bingo," Felicity agreed. "Their MO's similar to a group operating out of Gotham — kidnappings and bank robberies, completely random attacks — but the Gotham branch usually leaves some kind of calling card. These guys didn't."

"Copycats," Roy suggested.

"Definitely. Speedy and Zatanna are on Alpha, Roy's on a rooftop, Mari's closing in on Gamma, and you're —"

There was a resounding crash, a grunt from Diggle, and the twin thuds of his elbows hitting steel, like he was readjusting his position on the roof of a speeding van.

"— hanging off the roof of a truck, pending rendezvous with backup," he said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Well, that's…one way to do it," Felicity commented, as her stomach gave an uncomfortable twinge. The kind that made her wonder how fast she could roll her chair over to the wastepaper basket in case she needed to ralph.

Great. Her stomach was leading a riot during a high-speed chase for the DA.

"Join the club," Roy said. "In position, Oracle."

"Oh, so _now_ we're using code names," she muttered, readjusting in her chair as the babies squirmed — probably in response to the excess of food in her stomach. "Okay, Arsenal, your backup should be in position on 48th Street." She tapped a key to hail him. "Nightwing, report."

"Yes, ma'am," said Dick, over the sounds of Starling City traffic. "Ready to crash a kidnapping."

Felicity grinned in spite of herself. "That's the idea. Arsenal, can I trust you and Nightwing not to kill each other?"

There was a pause.

" _Ish_ ," Roy said.

"Good enough for me," Felicity said, switching over to Diggle's side of the raid. "Freelancer — you _really_ should hop onto this name bandwagon, BTW — you _do_ have incoming backup…but he's running a little late."

"As usual," Diggle said, unsurprised. "Where is he?"

* * *

"All this traffic kinda makes me wish I could fly," Thea said, from across the city.

Oliver was inclined to agree. He bent low over the handlebars of his motorbike, ducking his head against the wind tearing past his hood. Being out in the sunlight (not to mention dodging around traffic in full swing) took some getting used to, but as always — it was the mission that mattered.

"Speedy, what's your position?" he shouted.

Thea swore. "I _told_ you to call me _Red Arrow_ ," she said. "It'slike your code name, minus the _Green!_ "

"Speedy — _report_ ," Oliver said, speeding past a delivery guy with a camera phone. "Are you in position?"

Thea could be remarkably like Roy when she grumbled. "Yeah, I'm with Zatanna. What happened to taking a holiday? Y'know, for the _babies?_ "

Oliver paused thoughtfully — speeding bike aside — like he was considering the word. "Doesn't sound like something I'd do," he said. "And just out of curiosity, how were you and the others going to stop three armored trucks without Felicity running interference on the traffic lights and hacking the truck's GPS?"

"Driving skills — dumb luck — the usual. We were gonna draw all three of them to one location, so Zatanna could kill their systems once they got close enough."

"So I guess it's a good thing Felicity and I didn't head home with the takeout, then," Oliver remarked.

"Yeah, are we _sure_ that's a good idea?" Thea asked. "This isn't exactly the most de-stressing job, and I don't think you want your babies born in the basement of the Watchtower."

"I am _not_ calling it that."

" _Ollie_."

Oliver had a mental count of Felicity's due date, and despite it being in less than a week, Felicity showed absolutely zero signs of cutting back. "Speedy, do you honestly think I can tell Felicity what to do?"

Knowing his sister as well as he did, Oliver could tell that she was rolling her eyes. "Good point," she said. "You're all kinds of whipped."

Oliver sighted a truck up ahead and slid an arrow from his quiver with one hand, bracing to throw. "Noted," he said. "Freelancer, are you —?"

A piece of scrap metal whipped from the roof of the truck and sparked off the road, forcing Oliver to swerve.

"That's me," Diggle said. "Nice of you to finally show up, GA."

Oliver righted the bike's trajectory with a screech of rubber. "Was that for being late?" he asked.

"Maybe," Diggle answered. "The truck has C4 charges loaded in the back. I just used Palmer's laser thing —"

"— _compressed light beams,_ " Felicity interrupted over the comms. "Hi, babe. Just an update — everything's fine, but I finished most of the takeout."

" _Felicity_ ," Oliver said. "We were supposed to have lunch."

"I stress-eat, okay? My husband's out with the Justice League — I'm so proud I think I'm getting mini-barfs. Or I just ate too much Chinese food. But I'm also still hungry for Cronuts. That's weird, right? I mean not just me being hungry, but _this_."

"Define weird." Oliver dodged a car heading in the opposite direction. "I'm in a hood, and we have someone who does magic…apparently."

Felicity popped something crunchy into her mouth. "Oh, no — that's normal stuff now," she said, half-muffled by the food. "I mean the fact that you're wearing your _work_ -work clothes while it's light out. Green leather _really_ holds up in the sun. Hey — can you wear it home later? Strictly for non… _sex-having_ purposes, I mean. Scout's honor."

Oliver shifted on the bike seat, because Felicity couldn't have chosen a more acutely uncomfortable place to mention… _that_. "Felicity, find the DA — then we'll talk about me wearing the suit home, okay?"

Another piece of scrap metal whizzed towards Oliver, who zig-zagged to avoid it. "Don't mind me, you two," Diggle said pointedly, over the hiss of the handheld laser. He'd managed to gouge a hole in the steel roof, and was standing inside the truck. "Just trying to figure out how to dismantle a few bombs."

" _Sorry_ ," they said.

Felicity's hands darted across the keys. "I just patched into their GPS systems — they're trying to get the DA down to the docks, but I'm pretty sure they won't mind if we take them on a few detours."

"That's good," Oliver said. "Just try to keep —"

"—them off the busiest roads, I know," Felicity finished. "Not my first high-speed car chase, Mr. Green Arrow."

Oliver fought (and lost) against an irrepressible grin at the memory of Felicity with him on a speeding bike. "I remember," he said.

" _Jesus_ ," Diggle said. "I'd say _get a room_ , but you already did that."

"Hey — movement in the windshield," Felicity warned. "Careful, he's about to —"

The side window of the driver's compartment exploded in broken glass and gunshots. A dark shape twisted towards him, and Oliver barely had time to react. Felicity had managed to clear some of the traffic, but there were still a few cars scattered behind him, well within range to be an inadvertent target — which meant that he needed to stay in the line of fire. He hauled at the handlebars and swung the front wheel clean off the ground, exposing the underside of his bike to the gunshots.

Bullets peppered the road around him, but a shot still managed to ricochet off the steel hull, narrowly missing his knee. "Felicity," Oliver said, about to request a friendly diversion.

Needless to say, she beat him to the chase.

"Oh, he did _not_ just do that," she snapped, her fingers typing fast enough to rival the gunfire. "He did — _not_ — just —"

There was a mechanic whine, and the doors to the driver's compartment burst open of their own accord. A yell, and the guard with the gun went hurtling into an alleyway, his rifle flying past Oliver's head and bouncing off the concrete.

The bike's front tire hit the road with a screech, and Oliver glanced over his shoulder, a little stunned that she'd done it. " _Felicity_ ," he said.

"He shot at my husband," she answered, as worried as she was fiercely protective. "Are you okay?"

It was an unquestioned truth that Felicity was at her most formidable when the people she loved were in danger, and Oliver had never been given less reason to doubt it.

"Absolutely," he said. "How much farther?"

"You're close to the rendezvous point. One more bend — but I don't think HIVE's limo service is too happy about losing his back-seat driver. He's not going for the turn, you need to —"

"Got it," Oliver said, sliding an explosive arrowhead into the palm of his hand. "Freelancer — how's the dismantling?"

Diggle chuckled. "You know I can disable bombs in my sleep, so I'm guessing your unusual concern means you're about to do something that requires me to _hold on for dear life_ ," he said, demonstrating an uncanny knack for predicting Oliver's moves. "Go for it."

Oliver had to laugh. "Remember — you asked," he said, and hurled the arrow towards one of the front wheels. It went off with a burst of flames, jolting the truck a few feet clear of the ground. The wheels hit the concrete with a deafening screech, and the whole thing began to veer sharply towards the left — crossing into the intersection with no signs of stopping.

A flash of blinding light bloomed across Oliver's vision — the headlights of another truck hurtling towards them at high speed, and a third coming from the side, somehow on fire.

" _Guys_ ," Roy said, the air whistling past his earpiece from his position on the truck roof. "About to be a superhero pileup here!"

"What he means to say," Dick corrected, "is that Gamma's in position."

"Alpha too," Zatanna reported, surprisingly calm for someone in a vehicle set to crash.

"Copy that." Felicity said, typing faster than ever. "Mari? Rhinoceros would be good — or elephant. Something big. _Please._ "

A blur hurtled past Oliver — as graceful as a cheetah — and Mari materialized at the intersection, her hand dragging across the concrete with a scrape of claws. "In position," she answered, and rose from her crouch with her arms held high. "Ready when you are, Oracle."

"On my mark," Felicity said. "Three — two —"

Something invisible pulsed through the air, an unseen shiver of power that Oliver felt deep in his bones.

"— _one_."

" _Ezeerf senigne!_ " Zatanna cried, and the headlights blacked out at once, just in time for the almighty crash of three trucks being stopped by an impossible strength.

And silence.

Oliver could smell burning rubber from the bike's wheels, his heart racing from a crash he was still expecting. But it never came, and the back of a truck burst open from the force of Diggle's kick.

"Well," he said, landing solidly on the concrete, wholly unscathed. "I think it's safe to say we got the job done."

Oliver dismounted, bow in hand. "We might actually be getting better at this," he said, completely straight-faced.

Diggle surveyed the feebly-stirring kidnappers at the front of the trucks. "So — who's doing the honors?"

"Plenty to go around," Oliver said, and wrenched one of the doors open, yanking the guy out onto the concrete.

The rubber clown mask fell out with him, along with a gun Oliver kicked well clear of his scrabbling hands, his bow drawn and the arrow pointed straight at the thug's face. Out of breath and wheezing, he squinted at Oliver like the sunlight was blinding him.

"You're that arrow wacko," he snarled. "What the hell are you doing out in the day?"

" _Rude_ ," Felicity interrupted, listening as always. "But random-copycat-kidnapper has a point, guys. Are we morning people now?"

Oliver glanced at Diggle, all three of them amused — and maybe a little awed — at the change four years could make to a team that had started out in the shadows. Roy and the others were busy restraining the kidnappers for the SCPD, along with freeing the DA from the back of the truck. All in the uncompromising light of day, with news choppers hovering above them, and SCPD sirens drawing near.

"Fighting in the dark gets a little old," Diggle deadpanned. "Probably time for me to get my tan back."

The thug evidently wasn't pleased at being tied up with a jettisoning arrow. "Since when are there six of you nutjobs, anyway?" he spat, still trying to get free.

It was a struggle that didn't last long, because Oliver bound him from elbow to ankle with another clean shot. " _Seven_ ," he amended. "And it's the Justice League."

Felicity interrupted just in time to cut off the thug's profanity. "SCPD's getting real close," she said, her voice strangely tight. "Are you guys clearing out, or are press conferences a thing for us now?"

Oliver was instantly wary at Felicity's shortness of breath, an observation that hadn't escaped Diggle either. "Felicity, the last time you sounded like that was after you tried to lift Roy's weights in the gym," he said, shooting a worried glance at Oliver. "Please tell me you didn't try that nine months pregnant."

Oliver put a hand to his ear. "Felicity, are you all right?" he asked.

"Now that you mention it," Felicity said, sounding oddly high-pitched. "Not really. I thought I'd overindulged on Chinese food, because who wouldn't, I mean the spring rolls alone —"

"— _Felicity_ —"

"Ow — _ow_ — okay," Felicity gasped, but he had a feeling she wasn't talking just to him. "That's _definitely_ not Braxton-Hicks."

Oliver honestly thought his heart had skipped a beat. "Felicity, are you going into labor?" he said.

Felicity inhaled sharply. "Oliver, _promise me_ you're going to drive responsibly — and by that I mean the exact opposite of superhero-motocross — because it's happening," she said breathlessly. "I think I'm going into labor."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bam. Obvious? Probably. Legally required that Oliver be late to the hospital? Hell yes.
> 
> **Thoughts on 4x02 (they're not very coherent, I wrote them really late):**  
>  \- I need to know if Oliver put a note in the bag. I know I should be happy that he gave her a fern and a packed lunch, but I'm greedy. GIMME THE NOTE.
> 
> \- WHY WOULD YOU TELL LAUREL ABOUT HIVE, DIGGLE?! WHY?!
> 
> \- Civilian Oliver getting hit by a car and rolling back up is my new sexuality. Also, my Cause of Death: "We have money now" *weeps*
> 
> \- I found the Queen sibling fight VERY cool. I need more of this. Just maybe less snarling and spitting. *pretty please?*
> 
> \- Oh riiiiiiiight, Laurel didn't know about the Lazarus Pit. Forgot. *awks* And oh look, she's doing the exact same thing she gave Oliver crap for. Okay.
> 
> \- I said I was going to like Curtis - and I do. That guy is adorable. I need to see his husband. Please be someone adorable.
> 
> \- FELICITY'S WEARING THE POLKA DOT SHIRT. SHE'S WEARING THE POLKA DOT SHIRT!
> 
> \- OLIVER'S GIVING HER THE PEP TALK. *insert long caps-locked rant here* (Words cannot convey how excited I am for this character development)
> 
> \- I KNEW THAT HAPPY BALCONY KISS WAS A LIE. But that's actually an interesting way to frame Oliver's bid for mayor. Everyone's too terrified to run, so he's unopposed. Alrighty then.
> 
> \- Sara as a mummified corpse was not a sight I needed to see in this life. Thanks for that, Arrow writers. Why does she still have skin?! Also - if you're going to suffer through a 20-plus hour flight with a year-old corpse, maybe you should leave the lid on the coffin. Just saying.


	96. The Queen Family

At her advanced age of twenty-six, Felicity thought her days of being picked up by her mother were strictly over.

Spoiler alert: they were _not_.

"Just hang in there, baby, okay?" Donna said, supporting Felicity around the waist with steely determination as they walked-slash-hobbled through the hospital doors. "We're going to get you some —"

"—drugs," Felicity groaned.

Donna paused. "Actually, I was about to say ice chips, but sure, sweetie, whatever you want. Drugs probably aren't a bad idea though — I mean, with twins on the way, there's going to be so much _stretching_ —"

"— _mom_."

"Sorry, sorry." Donna looked wildly around, as though in search for a neon sign screaming _BABIES_. "It's been so long since I had you…do hospitals still work the same way? Why does it have an IT department?"

Felicity had been so convinced that the universe would seize any opportunity to throw a kink in the beauty of labor (sarcasm) that she'd rehearsed to the point of muscle memory how a solo trip to the hospital would work, just in case Oliver ended up being delayed by Justice League-y business.

Which was how she knew exactly where the elevator was and what floor to get to. It was a relief (in the _mildest_ sense of the word) when Felicity managed to sag against the cool wall, holding her aching back.

Weirdly enough, she'd forgotten to lay the mental groundwork for having Donna in the hospital with her. Felicity loved her mother — she really did — but Donna Smoak was literally _the_ worst person to have in a hospital room.

Reasons included: never-ending reminiscing about hospital sex, unlikely-to-happen-yet-vividly-described worst-case scenarios, and unrelenting cheeriness.

Okay, maybe the last one wasn't so bad. But the first two — the first two had a funny way of making Felicity want to cover her ears and walk rapidly in a circle singing nonsense syllables. Which she couldn't do, if the pain radiating around her lower back and pelvis got any worse.

"Oh god, how do you keep talking about sex like it's a good thing?" Felicity gasped, as her knees jerked from another contraction. "Labor freaking _hurts_."

Only she didn't say _freaking_.

"That's completely normal," Donna said, in response to what felt like the preface to a long string of labor-pain-induced profanity. "Bleep all you want. I _promise_ you I've heard worse at the Grand."

Felicity winced. "You obviously weren't there when Roy's favorite TV show got cancelled," she muttered. " _That_ was not pretty."

Donna flicked her hair out of her face, a hand over her mouth like she'd thought about something funny. "Now that I think about it, I made the doctor cry when I was on the delivery table…" she said, and laughed, completely oblivious to Felicity's wary stare. "I had _so_ much rage. Anyway, as soon as we get you into bed, I'll rub your back, okay?"

Felicity shook her head. "Call Oliver," she said, suffering an unwilling relapse into sentence fragments. "Hospital room. Bring…stuff."

In the interests of giving birth, Felicity had meant the carefully-packed bag containing everything she needed for the hospital — including clothes for the babies and their blankets. But as usual — her mother was excellent at pulling a Roy Harper and getting the completely wrong idea.

"Oh sweetie," Donna said, helping her out of the elevator. "I don't think you need condoms just because you're in labor. It's probably okay to squeeze in one last quickie before your water breaks — then the shop's officially closed for eight weeks. Longer, if you end up tearing —"

Felicity made a graceless lunge for the reception desk. "I need aspirins!" she shouted, in a guttural voice freakishly unlike her own.

The nurse — understandably — found that one a little harder to piece together.

"My daughter's in labor," Donna explained, in what was undoubtedly meant to be a voice of soothing calm. "I think we asked for a private room? It's probably under Smoak, Smoak-Queen, or just Queen — I forgot."

* * *

"No, Barry, we don't need a giant bear," Oliver said, gesturing for Diggle to take the next right.

Which he did, after shooting Oliver a scathing look that showed exactly what he felt about being given directions to the hospital.

"Are you sure?" Barry asked. "I mean — all the movies have a giant bear in the hospital room. That's just the way it goes."

Oliver pinched the bridge of his nose. " _No_ ," he repeated.

Barry heaved a sigh. " _Fine_. Yo — Cisco! He said no — no bear — _ow_ —" There was some scuffling on Barry's side of the call, and a loud yelp like he'd been pinched (Oliver found it hard to sympathize on that one).

"Oliver?" It was Caitlin. "Remember to keep Felicity calm. Labor's usually shorter with twins, but if she can, have her walk around the room a few times — it might take her mind off the pain."

"Right," Oliver said, nervously checking the road for what felt like the thousandth time. "Any advice for my hand?"

"You mean the one Felicity's going to crush when she's delivering?" He knew Caitlin was teasing him. "Sorry, Oliver, but you'll have to suck it up."

Oliver smiled. "Thanks, Caitlin."

"Don't mention it. Keep us posted — and I'll make sure Felicity gets a giant panda bear, not a kangaroo."

Oliver had barely hung up before Thea poked him in the back. "Ollie," she said, showing him her phone. "You weren't picking up, so Felicity's texting me."

"Me too," Roy said, between a series of continuous text alerts. "How many hands does she _have?_ "

Thea ignored her boyfriend. "She says Donna's with her —"

"—that's not good," Oliver muttered, partially to his sister, partially in response to the long string of texts Felicity had sent him while he'd been on the phone with Barry.

_WHERE ARE YOU_

_I NEED ASPIRINS_

_ILL KILL YOU IF YOURE AT ARCHERY PRACTICE_

_MOM KEEPS TALKING_

_ALL IS FORGIVEN FOR ASPIRINS JUST GET HERE_

"She's passed the mucus plug," Roy said, and cocked his head, mystified. "What's a mucus plug?"

"Believe me, you do _not_ want to know," Diggle said.

Thea shoved her phone in Roy's face. " _This_ is a mucus plug," she said, ignoring his expression of horror. "Thank god for Google — and people who like taking pictures of the stuff that comes out of them."

"I think I'm gonna be sick," Roy announced, rolling down the window.

Oliver wasn't listening. "John — do you have any oxycodone on you?" he asked.

* * *

Felicity gripped the window ledge, pressing her hot forehead against the glass in an effort to cool herself down. Not about the plethora of threats she could text Oliver in a moment of weakness, despite her mandatory safe-driving rule. Not about how much she wanted Gatorade frozen into ice cubes…or the fact that she was wearing a paper dress with no underwear on.

_Definitely_ not about her contractions — which felt like cramp day on horse steroids.

"Sorry about that," Felicity murmured to her belly, because Hazel and Tommy — despite their lack of word comprehension — _had_ to be wondering about the long, meditative stream of profanities she'd been saying to herself for the last hour.

Dr. Yeung had come and gone — after pronouncing that she was 'halfway there' in cervical dilation (good), and tactfully enquiring if the father was planning to be present at the birth (less good).

"I should have asked her about my water breaking," Felicity said, resuming her restless pacing by the window, hissing occasionally from a horse-steroid contraction. "Is it bad that my water didn't break?"

"My water broke when I started to push," Donna reassured her, folding Felicity's clothes into a neat pile on the side table. "I was freaking _out_ because I thought I peed myself — although that's probably not the _worst_ thing that could come out of you on the delivery table. Those drugs really numb _everything_ , including your b—"

"— _mom_."

"Sorry — had a baby moment. Don't worry about it, sweetie. Just breathe," Donna said, inhaling so deeply in a demonstration that Felicity thought she heard a stitch pop on her skintight pink dress.

The calm yoga-style breathing lasted about two minutes before Felicity felt another contraction come on. Or continue. Or combine with the last one to make a mutant contraction.

Fracking hell, she couldn't even tell the difference anymore.

"I'm never having sex again," Felicity swore.

Even if it was crazy talk (because Felicity wasn't wired to be celibate where Oliver was concerned), there was something cathartic about being audibly crazy. Something less axe-murdery.

Donna waved her hand. "Oh, Felicity, if your libido's anything like mine, by the end of eight weeks you'll be raring to g—"

"—mom, could you find a nurse, please?" Felicity said tightly. "Screw breathing exercises. I need some drugs. Big time."

Donna leapt to her feet — an impressive feat, given the heels. "Absolutely," she said. "I'm here for you — whatever you need — ice chips, breathing exercises…and that spinal block thingy."

"Epidural."

"Epidural," Donna repeated giving Felicity a quick kiss on the cheek before she bustled from the room. "Epidural, epidural…"

Maybe it was the contractions, but she'd barely been gone a few minutes before the door burst open again.

Felicity turned in mild alarm, until she saw who it was — and felt herself sag in relief. "Oh, thank frack," she said, automatically holding out her arms to Oliver.

Who practically cleared the hospital bed between them — Olympic hurdle-style — in his hurry to get to her. "I'm sorry," he said, kissing her cheeks and forehead. "I'm so sorry I'm late."

But Felicity was busy patting him down for signs of injury, just in case being shot at on a motorbike had turned out to be a terrible idea, safety-wise.

"Felicity, I'm _fine_ ," Oliver said, catching her hands. "How are you?"

"Oh — never been better. I mean, no underwear, stabbing pains in my back, and did my mom mention that I'm probably going to wet my nonexistent pants in the delivery room?" Felicity grimaced at another contraction. " _Super_ sexy stuff."

"Would it help if I told you that I've seen worse?" Oliver asked.

"Not sure," Felicity answered, because _hormones_. But she still held out her arms. "Hug me — I'm freaking out."

Oliver one-hundred-percent obliged, and Felicity buried her face in the front of his shirt, wordless with relief that he'd made it. Even though it wasn't the Green Arrow suit (part of her had been expecting Oliver to show up in his _work-_ work clothes), there was a weirdly reassuring hint of explosives still lingering on his skin.

"Thea made me change first," Oliver explained, as if he could read her thoughts. "She said the suit would make a scene at the hospital."

Felicity's laugh set off a painful gripe in her stomach, but it was worth it. "Smart girl," she said. "Leather and placenta — not a good combination."

As well-practiced as her skills at deception were, Oliver still noticed the twitch, and pulled back to look at her. "Did they give you anything?" he asked.

Felicity shook her head. "Just sent my mom to get a nurse," she said. "Did you bring any aspirins?"

"Dig was all out." Oliver stroked her hair in consolation. "Sorry."

" _Damn it_ , John," Felicity joked, and they laughed.

It was definitely on the quiet side, leaning more towards _oh-god-this-is-totally-happening_ instead of actual humor — but it was a precious moment to her, because it was one of the last with just the two of them, before a pair of beautiful new lives joined them in the strange, insane world they both lived in.

"This is it," Felicity whispered, looking him in the eye. "When we walk out of this hospital, we'll have two babies to take home with us."

"Maybe they'll let us keep them," Oliver agreed, in a flash of questionable Queen-patented humor. "Hazel and Tommy."

The mention of their children's names made Felicity feel a little better, a little stronger, in spite of the steroid contractions, and the dull ache pretty much everywhere else — because it was something to fight for. Of that, she was unequivocally sure.

And of another thing too.

"Any regrets?" she whispered.

Oliver stroked the hair back from her cheeks. "Never," he whispered back, and Felicity smiled.

"Good."

* * *

Oliver wondered if Felicity had intentionally forgotten that an epidural started with a needle. A needle in the lower back, to be precise.

"Is there anything else?" he asked, watching Felicity with concern. "Anything without a needle?"

"Her contractions are too strong," the nurse explained. "There's a chance she'll still feel the pain if she uses nitrous gas."

Felicity shook her head determinedly. "Pain no good," she said, through gritted teeth. "Needle…I can handle. I think."

"All right then — I'm going to need you to lean forward," said the nurse. "You'll have to keep very still, Mrs. Queen. Can you do that?"

Felicity hesitated, and Oliver reached for her hands, helping her to sit up straight. "Squeeze as hard as you like," he said. "Don't hold back."

"But I'll crush it," Felicity protested. "And I don't mean like the good kind of _crush it_ , like _wow, Felicity, you crushed it!_ — I mean the bone-breaking, requires-surgical-repair kind of _crush it_ —"

It was the previous year's flu shot all over again. Oliver gave the nurse a meaningful look over Felicity's head, making sure she was ready with the needle.

"—and correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure you need your hands for all the stuff you do at night. Ha — that sounded dirty. Leave it to me to sound like a perv while I'm in labor, but seriously —"

Oliver bent his head and kissed her, holding her face in his hands until the nurse tapped his shoulder to signal that the epidural was set up.

"That's definitely one of the weirder ones I've seen," she said bluntly, checking the anesthetic levels on the pump. "Most couples just go to their happy place."

It was a relief to see Felicity smile. "You have _no_ idea," Oliver murmured, stroking her cheek with his thumb.

Oliver thanked the nurse and pulled the covers back up over Felicity's legs. She was still pale with discomfort, but the drugs weren't meant to kick in for a while. He rubbed her knee gently, listening to the steady rhythm of the heart monitors.

"I think they're happy," Felicity said, feeling her stomach. "They're not kicking like hell — so that's a win."

Oliver shifted his hand to her belly, but it only managed to rest there for a second before a solid thump from within nearly pushed his palm straight off. Felicity laughed at the expression on his face and took his hand to rectify the situation. " _No_ ," she cooed, smoothing his fingers back over the spot. "That's your dad. _Nice_ hand — you can kick him once you're out of my baby oven."

The baby — whichever it was, maybe both — kicked all the more furiously in response, to the point where they were both laughing quietly, their hands on Felicity's belly.

"Oh god," Felicity breathed, her eyes wide. "They're never going to listen to us, are they?"

Oliver tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "They're half-Queen," he said, very seriously. "Of course they won't."

Felicity shut her eyes and groaned quietly. " _No_ ," she said, but she was laughing, pulling him close. "What did I marry into?"

"I have no idea," Oliver said. "But I can't wait to find out."

* * *

Felicity didn't dare make the assertion that she'd remember going into labor the same way forever. Partly because she'd been given an undisclosed dosage of painkillers (effect on rose-tinted glasses unclear), partly because it had been (crime-fighting and childbirth included) a _very_ strange day. There were quiet moments where time seemed to slow down — sitting in bed with Oliver rubbing the cramps from her feet, smiling at Thea when she came with flowers and a story about how Roy had thrown up in the car — and patches of time where everything seemed to accelerate to full throttle — like being pushed into the delivery room where the words _oxygen_ and _diastolic_ were tossed across the table in clipped syllables, with the resulting effect of _oh-god-this-is-really-it_.

It really was.

"Oliver," Felicity said, shifting clumsily as they wheeled her in. "Where —?"

It was a brief moment of disoriented panic before Oliver's hand caught hers, and he was at her side again. "I'm here," he promised, lacing their fingers tight. "I'm here."

It was hard to concentrate on voices — or anything, really — when the contractions kept getting stronger. Even if the anesthetic dulled the pain, she still felt each twist like a powerful tug on her insides, as if she was being pulled taut and released along with each wave.

She writhed under the pressure of a fresh contraction, trying not to make the terrifying wounded-animal noises she _knew_ she could manage, hands-down. But she had to do something, and that _something_ was unfortunately squeezing the bones in Oliver's hand at the worst part of the pain.

"That's it — after I get these two kids out of me, I'm instituting a no-sex rule," she declared. " _Ever_."

Oliver blinked, his expression frozen in what could only be described as _oh frack_. "What?"

Felicity laughed, even though it hurt like hell. "Sorry — I just wanted to see someone more scared than I am right now," she gasped. "It hurts — it really hurts."

"I know, I know — I'm sorry." Oliver smoothed the hair back from her sweaty forehead. "But you're going to be okay, Felicity. You've always been so strong — and I believe in you."

Felicity managed to nod, because it was the only thing she trusted herself to do, and they moved at the same time, meeting in a kiss that was as breathless as it was needed, desperately so. Because as hard as Felicity wanted to fight to bring their children into the world, she was also more terrified than she'd thought possible.

_Was_.

Because Oliver kissed her like they were alone, like he had on their wedding day, smiling into it in a way that made her lips turn up naturally to mirror his. The memories alone were a rush of sweetness in the middle of the pain, and Felicity leaned on him, knowing — trusting — that he'd be with her through it all.

"You know I was kidding about the no-sex part, right?" she whispered, against his mouth. "I mean…just so you don't get any funny ideas."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he murmured.

Felicity wasn't a Barbie, or high on crack — so the smile didn't stay on her face when she started to push, but the steady fire burning inside her chest absolutely did. The pain came and faded, so did faces and glaring lights. Somewhere in the haze of it all, Felicity heard the words _push_ and _now_ , and instead of fatigue — of which she had _plenty_ — there was only the inexplicable sense of rightness, as if something unseen and powerful was waiting to align itself into place.

And she knew what she had to do.

_Okay_ , Felicity thought, gathering her strength around her, feeling the exhausted muscles tense in her belly. Oliver's hand in hers, his words in her ear. _Okay_.

She lost track of how much time she'd spent lying on the table, twisting and groaning at each surge, gripping Oliver's hand so tightly that it must have hurt — because she could barely feel her own fingers as it was.

Even so, there were two things Felicity knew for sure.

The first — was that she'd never regret a single moment, not a single step in the short life that had left its fair share of bruises and scars, but held an unbelievable store of sweetness too. It was a short, unpredictable life that had taken her from being an IT girl to becoming the Oracle, from wondering about her missing father to fighting him head-on in a battle for everyone she knew and loved, to meeting cherished family, friends, and the love of her life, to being… _happy_.

And the second?

Felicity felt it, the little _click_ of a moment that made her feel as if she'd opened her eyes for the first time, an overpowering feeling inside her chest at the single sound, the sound that opened up her world.

Her baby, crying.

"It's the girl," Oliver said, his eyes bright with something she couldn't name. "It's Hazel."

"Keep pushing, Felicity," said her doctor, holding firmly to her ankles. "Almost there. He's coming, just push in three, two…"

Felicity did. She strained against Oliver's arm, braced across her chest to stop her from falling, fighting the bone-deep weariness of labor with the sound of her daughter's crying in her ears — so strong, so fierce — because she was almost there — almost — _almost_ —

The relief came without warning — like the tension had left her all at once — and Felicity knew that she'd given birth to her son even before she heard him cry.

"It's Tommy," Oliver told her, his voice breaking with emotion. "They're both here. Felicity — they're here."

There were tears running from her eyes — whether from the pushing, or the hormones, she didn't know — but Felicity was well and truly crying by the time they laid the babies against her chest, two warm, slippery, and decidedly squirming weights that were her son and daughter.

"I love you," she said hoarsely, holding them to her heartbeat. "I love you so much."

Oliver's arm was around her shoulders and he kissed the side of her head, careless of the sweat and tears and the other unspeakable things covering them both, because nothing had ever mattered less, just that they were together.

All four of them.

Oliver's hand looked impossibly huge against Hazel and Tommy's tiny bodies, and even though the both of them (the babies, not the parents) were still wailing, Felicity knew that he was happy — and oh god, so was she.

"They're so beautiful," he said, as if it was the most uncomplicated thing in the world.

Because it was. "They are," Felicity whispered, rocking them gently in her arms. "They are."

* * *

"Thank god they look like you," Thea said, teasing Tommy's hand gently with her fingertip. "My brother does _not_ have a lot of cute in him."

"I heard that," Oliver said, from his chair by Felicity's bed.

Hazel was in his arms, and she squirmed at the sound of his voice, her eyes wide and searching for the source of the noise. Oliver turned slightly to give her a view of her mother and younger brother, which only made her small arms reach even more.

Oliver felt her feet kick furiously within the snug swaddling, and Felicity laughed, relinquishing their son to her mother so she could lean over and stroke the downy fluff covering her daughter's head. "I think we know who was responsible for all the karate," she said, as Tommy refused to do anything except blink sleepily and yawn — his mouth a perfect round _O_.

"Oh, I don't think she knows how to sit still," Donna cooed, kissing Tommy's fist while she bobbed him gently in her arms.

"Don't know why _that's_ familiar," Diggle commented, playing with Hazel's chubby fist. "You think his sister's gonna give him hell?"

"Well, she _is_ older by twelve whole minutes," Felicity said. "And if she has the Queen troublemaker gene and the trademark Smoak sass…"

"You've given life to the monster that will destroy us all," Thea joked. "I'm gonna be _such_ a proud aunt if they both turn out to be geniuses. I call bragging rights, like, right now."

"I'll be happy with anything they turn out to be," Oliver said, and meant it.

"Even if they turn out to be dummies?" Felicity asked teasingly. "Or — I don't know — interested in a life of non-pointy-objects and/or being regular, happy dummies?"

Oliver carried Hazel over to her, sitting at the edge of her bed and settling their daughter gently in Felicity's arms. Hazel's eyes were bigger than ever in response to the new development, and Felicity laughed when a hand batted at her hair.

Oliver loved the sound of her laugh. "Anything," he promised, and Felicity tipped her head up for a smiling kiss.

One that made Donna sigh happily, and made Roy clear his throat to remind them that they weren't alone. But instead of a pointed remark Oliver had been expecting, Roy leaned an elbow on Felicity's bed, peering over the swaddling at Hazel's dozing face.

"So who cut the cord?" he asked, wearing a surprisingly tender expression that would have earned him a week's worth of teasing from Dick.

Everyone exchanged looks that bordered on gleeful. "Roy Harper," said Felicity, "are you _actually_ succumbing to baby cuteness?"

"What?" Roy said. "Who doesn't like babies?"

Thea frowned in mock-confusion. "I think everyone was expecting that person to be you."

Felicity intervened before the two archers could start bickering in the hospital room by kissing Roy on the cheek. "We did one each," she said. "I got to cut Tommy's, and Oliver got Hazel's. Well — actually — he probably would have gotten both if he hadn't put the scissors in my hand, I was _really_ out of it."

Oliver secretly wondered if she remembered getting stitches too, but decided to leave the reminder for later. Diggle rested a hand on his shoulder. "They're beautiful babies," he said. "Congratulations, you two."

As tired as she was, Felicity beamed widely enough for them both. "Thank you, John."

Diggle kissed her cheek and turned back to Oliver, a faint smile on his face, like he knew something Oliver didn't. "So," he said. "Feel any different?"

In answer, Oliver looked down at his daughter. Hazel had stopped wriggling like she wanted to get free of the blankets, but she stared at him with outstretched arms and a pair of deep blue eyes, the perpetual curiosity in them virtually identical to her mother's.

Oliver smiled as Hazel's delicate fingers curled around his thumb. "Completely," he said. "It's a whole new world."

* * *

Felicity didn't remember falling asleep. Maybe it was the drugs, or the hours of labor, but she'd blacked out like it was no one's business, and didn't wake until the sky was dark out and everyone had gone.

Oliver wasn't in his chair by the bed, and Felicity didn't see the babies in the cradle. Those facts combined should have been enough for a major panic attack, but Felicity already knew it would have taken something just shy of a nuclear apocalypse for Oliver to let his children go, and the world looked distinctly un-apocalypsed, fatigue aside.

The downside of an epidural (joys of painkilling aside) meant that anything below the waist was feeling distinctly jelly-like, and turning in bed was a careful maneuver that left Felicity feeling distinctly to the weaker side of the cardio scale.

Oliver was a shape by the windows, turning slowly from side to side with his arms curved in front of him, supporting the weight of two babies that seemed to fit perfectly in his embrace.

He was _humming_. Despite the tuneless music (not a born singer, her Oliver), Felicity listened to her husband hum to their children with a slow smile spreading across her face. Not just because Oliver having a tone-deaf moment was the cutest thing she could have ever imagined, but because it was a beautifully quiet thing to see — how much Oliver already loved his son and daughter, to the point that he refused to let them go, not even to shut his eyes and sleep.

"You love our burritos, don't you?" Felicity asked sleepily.

Oliver looked over his shoulder. "I was just showing them the city," he whispered. "They like the lights."

"You sound surprised," Felicity remarked, as Oliver laid their babies carefully against their chest. "They have a night owl for a father and caffeine junkie for a mother, you know. Of course they have it in them to jump rooftops at indecent hours of the night."

Felicity's baby-holding setup was considerably less graceful than Oliver's broad arms and chest, so Oliver still had to support Tommy's head — sitting behind her against the headboard — when both babies were in her arms.

"We'll work on it," Felicity said, and Oliver laughed, his chin on her shoulder.

"How are you?" he asked, stroking the hair from her face. "Do you need anything?"

Felicity shook her head. "I have everything I need."

They stayed like that, for a long time, the two of them content to just watch their children experience the new world around them, each flicker of an eyelid, every soft gurgle and look of wonder. It was an awkward novelty, holding her children, but Felicity couldn't get enough of watching her babies' faces, and she had a mental flash-forward of herself pressing kisses onto her kids à la her mother.

"I'm going to be an embarrassing mom," Felicity announced. "It's in my genes — and I am _so_ going to steer into that skid."

Oliver kissed her neck, and his arm came around to encircle her waist. "Our children are going to love you as much as Connor does," he said, holding her close.

"So you mean…more than their dad?" Felicity teased.

Her lashes fluttered closed when Oliver kissed her eyelids, working his way down to her nose and mouth. "Absolutely," he said, with no hesitation whatsoever. "I love you, Felicity."

Felicity laughed quietly into their kiss. "I love you, Oliver," she murmured. "Today, tomorrow…"

"Every day after that," Oliver finished. "Always."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. I learned more about epidurals and babies being born that I ever wanted to know. I really should remember the Private Browsing function more often... :-/ Ah well. *throws up hands*
> 
> Now once I upload these puppies, I'm gonna enjoy a nice bowl of dumplings, because my butt has literally been glued to my desk chair for the last twelve hours.


	97. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Last, LAST update for Legacies. (Brace for more incoherent rambling in the end notes)
> 
> Assume that I've had "Simple Song" by The Shins on constant repeat while writing this :)

**_One year later_ **

Felicity stifled a yawn behind her hand as the elevator doors closed on the view of her study, and the floor sank with a quiet hiss towards the basement.

"Felicity Queen, Oracle," she said, and the system hummed quietly in welcome.

"Good morning, Mrs. Queen," said ORACLE. "How are you today?"

Felicity sipped from the mug of coffee she'd found waiting for her on the nightstand, inspecting the alerts that had accumulated during the night on her tablet. "The answer to _that_ depends on what my husband's doing in the lair," she muttered. "Any chance of a preview?"

"Mr. Queen appears to be engaging in physical training," ORACLE informed her. "Should I alert him to your presence?"

The doors slid open to the familiar clanging of the salmon ladder. "I think I can tell him myself," Felicity answered, stepping out into the lair. "Thank you, ORACLE."

The mansion's basement had been spruced up over the last year, like the Foundry's cousin once removed, with some extensive reconstructive surgery and significant nerding up. One side was totally devoted to perpetually-operating computers and forensic equipment, while the other was a plethora of training gear that required more cardio that she would ever willingly undertake, and a workshop where Oliver made and fine-tuned his weapons.

It was their space, and Felicity was proud to say that they'd done a more-than-decent job of making it home. Normally, she would have stopped at her workstation to start on some of the pending alerts, but as far as morning surprises went, Oliver on a salmon ladder was the best reward for getting out of bed.

She left her tablet by the workstation fern and headed owards the source of the salmon ladder noises, mug of coffee in hand (her second-favorite drink when it came to observing Oliver working out).

And she was _not_ disappointed.

From her plentiful experience with creepy-observing Oliver's workout habits, she'd developed a not-at-all-scientific system of telling how long Oliver had been on the salmon ladder, and judging from the fine sheen of sweat on his torso, she guessed that he'd been at it for a while.

Oliver's expression was of perfect concentration as he swung from one rung to the next, each breath carefully controlled, every muscle in his body trained to be graceful. Felicity didn't want to specify exactly what effect the overall picture had on _her_ , but needless to say it was amplified when Oliver reared up and balanced his weight on the bar, a faint smile on his face when he turned to look at her.

"Good morning," he said.

Felicity was _very_ much in agreement. "Hot coffee on the nightstand, _and_ you shirtless at seven-thirty on a Saturday?" she asked. "I thought it was Hazel and Tommy's birthday, not mine."

Oliver laughed and dropped back onto the ground, landing as soundlessly as a cat. "Is that a complaint, Mrs. Queen?"

Felicity made a thoughtful face and set her mug down on the flat head of a training dummy. "That depends," she said, walking up to Oliver and sliding his arms around his middle, not-so-subtly leaning her body against his. "On how long it takes you to give your wife a kiss."

"I'm sweaty," Oliver pointed out, but he was still smiling.

"I know," Felicity whispered, nipping lightly on his lower lip. "It's _amazing_."

It was getting increasingly obvious that neither of them minded in the least. Well, except maybe one thing.

Felicity had to break off laughing when her tank top got stuck over her glasses, requiring Oliver to gently work it free. "That's a little embarrassing," she remarked, by the time her glasses emerged askew, her hair in an incurable state of post-wakeup messiness.

Oliver tossed the offending shirt so far away that it might have hit one of the computers. "I have an idea," he said, and Felicity yelped when he picked her up, completely undeterred by otherwise romance-dampening clumsiness.

" _Really_ ," she said, wrapping her legs around him. "Do tell."

"Mm," Oliver answered, his mouth a little preoccupied with making her neck and ears burn from the heat of his kisses. "You should never be wearing anything — ever."

With two active toddlers and a housekeeper who wasn't blind, the suggestion didn't hold very much weight, but Felicity was more interested in the fact that Oliver was carrying her towards the cot they kept at the back of the lair, for the official purposes of recovery and recuperation.

Not other stuff. Definitely not so Oliver could lay her down flat and peel her sweats from her hips and legs. Definitely not so Felicity could nuzzle at his throat and chest, fumbling with his zipper and pushing his waistband low.

"That's…interesting," Felicity managed, finding it hard to keep still with Oliver's head near her belly. "But wouldn't I get… _ah_ …cold?"

Oliver's laugh tickled her skin, and she sighed as he worked his way back up to her lips, hovering only close enough to kiss. "Would you?" he asked.

Felicity pulled gently on Oliver's hips and relished the soft moan in her ear when he slid home. "Not with you," she whispered.

* * *

"Felicity, you're going to eat all the frosting," Oliver said, eyeing her over the freshly-baked cakes cooling on the wire rack.

Felicity licked the chocolate off her finger. "Just taste-testing it," she said, giving the mixture a few more whisks. "Who knew cream cheese, sugar, cocoa powder and butter could be this good?"

Oliver made a face. "The person who wrote this recipe, for starters," he said.

"And the two hungry toddlers who are going to _love_ the cake their dad made them," Felicity added, holding up a dollop of frosting on her finger. "Taste."

Oliver gave her a look, but obligingly sucked the frosting off her index finger anyway. "It's good," he said.

"You think it's too sweet," Felicity guessed, reading him like a book. "Well, tough. I have the palate of a one-year-old, and once we figure out a healthy way to cover their vegetables in frosting — I'm pretty sure Hazel and Tommy are going to eat whatever we put in front of them."

"Is there a _healthy_ way to cover broccoli with butter and sugar?" Oliver asked.

Felicity leaned across the counter and swiped frosting across his nose. "I'm sure you'll figure it out," she teased.

There was a delicious look of mischief in Oliver's eye when he left the cakes on the counter and took off his apron. "Come here," he said, splaying his broad palms across the wood.

Felicity shook her head, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet, ready to run in either direction. "In the words of our daughter at bath time, _mm-mm_."

It was a stalemate, and Felicity broke it by darting away first. Barefoot but in her party dress, she managed one whole circle around the kitchen island before Oliver caught her around the waist, dragging her — shrieking with laughter — into his arms, rubbing noisy (and icing-covered) kisses all over her hair and shoulders.

"That's what you get for putting frosting on me," he said, while she squirmed away from his ticklish stubble. "No mercy."

The icing mishap showed every sign of digressing into seriously childish territory, and as much as Felicity wanted that to happen, they had guests coming in… _soon._

"Okay! Truce — truce!" Felicity laughed, holding up her hands in surrender.

Oliver lifted her easily onto the tabletop and stood between her legs, apparently oblivious to the fact that there was still chocolate on his face. Which she was tempted to leave as it was, but she had a hunch that Oliver would find creative ways of private retaliation if she let him walk chocolate-covered into a room with Tommy and Hazel.

Because there was a decent chance that one of them would start biting him — just on the off-chance he turned out to be an oversized chocolate bunny.

Felicity reached behind him for the dishtowel hanging off the peg and wet it under the tap, dabbing away the frosting from his beard and hair.

"We probably shouldn't have done that," Oliver said, noting the telling chocolate stains on both their clothes.

"Probably not. But hey — this doesn't make us bad parents, just BTW," Felicity said, wringing out the stains. "We're _way_ over there on the good-mom-and-dad scale for the homemade birthday cake. Well, you are. But I leech off your karmic vibes."

"Felicity, you're a wonderful mom," he said. "No one else can feed Tommy like you do — he'll eat anything you put on a spoon — and Hazel can't go to sleep unless you're beside her."

Felicity found it hard not to be a little smug about that. "Tommy likes it because I pretend the spoon's a CAT-5 prong going into the ethernet port, and Hazel prefers talking over a nature sounds machine because she's part-Queen. They're a _weird_ family."

"Our family," Oliver said.

"Our family," Felicity agreed, and they smiled at each other.

Judging by the look on Oliver's face, he would have said something distinctly knee-melting, if the doorbell hadn't rung at that exact moment.

"And…frack," Felicity said, looking down at her smeared dress.

"I'll get the door," Oliver said. "Can you —"

"—make sure Tommy isn't wearing his sweater upside down? _Yes_." Felicity hopped down from the counter and wriggled back into her shoes. "See you later."

Oliver caught her by the hand before she could go, and pulled her back for a quick kiss on the lips. He still tasted like chocolate, a fact Felicity knew was going to be acutely distracting, birthday party or not. "See you later."

* * *

"How did you manage to run over your toes with your own gift?" Felicity asked, picking up the matching pull toys Barry had brought to the party and putting them out of stepping range. Tommy was with Oliver in the kitchen, which left Hazel with Felicity, observing her uncles and aunts while she toddled from side to side, her hand securely clinging to Felicity's.

"No idea," Barry winced, a glass of punch in hand. "I think the universe is using supreme clumsiness to help balance out my speed."

"Make sense," Roy said, straightening the growing pile of birthday presents for Hazel and Tommy. "You can phase through walls anyway."

Felicity couldn't help but notice he'd put the two oversized pandas on top of the stack, his and Thea's present as Hazel's godparents.

"He read somewhere that a godfather always needs to bring a present bigger than the kid," Thea said, in a loud whisper. "I'm just gonna wait and see what he does with that once they get taller than him."

"Good call," Diggle said, and held out a stack of colorful books tied together with ribbon. "These were Sara's favorites — and they should tide you over until they discover the joys of TV."

"A-plus advice," Felicity said, kissing both Diggle and Lyla on the cheek.

"So where's our godson?" Lyla asked, bouncing Andrea on her hip. "You didn't let Cisco take him, did you?"

"God no — Tommy's with his father. But to be fair…" Felicity said, spotting Cisco on the far side of the drawing room with Laurel. "Cisco's dating Laurel now, so he's definitely moved up the babysitting list."

"By how many places?" Roy said dubiously.

Felicity patted a stray curl on her daughter's dark blonde head. "He gets to babysit…assuming pretty much everyone in this room gets delayed by unforeseen and unavoidable circumstances, like the hospital — or _prison_ ," she said.

"Sounds about right," Barry said, raising his glass in a mock toast.

" _Da_ ," Hazel said, pointing at the giant panda.

"You want uncle Roy?" Felicity asked, crouching beside her daughter. "Go get uncle Roy!"

"What?" Roy said, a half-eaten cupcake in hand.

Hazel was off, hobbling towards her uncle and screaming with enough maniacal excitement to make Andrea wriggle uncontrollably in Lyla's arms, trying to join in the fun.

"Here we go," Lyla sighed, letting her daughter go with a small pat. "Play nice, sweetie. Don't elbow uncle Roy, okay?"

All she got was a mumbled non-word in reply, before Andrea was charging off to tackle Roy too.

"Oo — I wonder if Roy still wants that cupcake," Barry said, and marched over to the screaming children.

Thea hugged Felicity around the waist. "Ah, birthday parties," she said, watching Roy fend off the messy affection of two toddlers.

Felicity gave Thea's arms a squeeze. "Thinking about starting a family?" she teased. "Roy's pretty good with kids — surprisingly."

" _Psh_ ," Thea answered, but she was smiling. "I'm sowing my wild oats."

"Cake!" Cisco said, and everyone looked around at the fizz of two firework candles.

"Here we go," Oliver said, walking slowly into the room, the chocolate cake balanced in one hand, Tommy holding onto the other, taking three unsteady steps for Oliver's one.

Felicity heard Hazel land on the ground, scrambling off her hands to stand upright. "Up," she said, holding her arms up to Felicity.

Felicity laughed, and hoisted her daughter into her arms, a well-practiced routine and probably the only kind of semi-heavy lifting she could manage. "Go to daddy and Tommy?" she asked. "Daddy and Tommy?"

Hazel's head bobbed in an excited nod, staring at the sparks shooting into the air. The cake was on the table, but Oliver had lifted a wide-eyed Tommy onto his shoulders so he could safely grasp at the air above the soaring sparks.

Unlike his sister, Tommy's hair was more or less the same dark brown it had been when he was born. Hazel was more like Oliver in looks (troublemaking disposition included), and although Tommy was without a doubt the quieter half of the sibling pair, Felicity knew Oliver nursed a soft spot for his son's smile, as though he could see someone he loved very much in the quiet, dark-haired boy they'd made.

Which wasn't to say that he loved Hazel any less, something she saw in the unabashed grin he wore after his daughter planted a sloppy kiss on his face.

"So how'd I do?" he asked. "For a first birthday party."

Felicity pretended to look around, at their friends and family, the streamers and balloons, and their laughing children in a house that was home.

It was a good sign, she thought, not being able to imagine them being anywhere else.

Felicity stood on her toes to kiss Oliver. "Perfect," she whispered.

It lasted about half a second — before Tommy flopped forward, his weight pressing down on both their heads like some kind of couple's hat, and Hazel nearly made a face-first Geronimo onto the birthday cake with a joyous shriek.

Much to general amusement. Roy turned to Diggle, eyebrows raised. "Can we train them to do that?" he asked.

Diggle started to clap. "I think the birthday boy and girl want a song," he said, and Thea immediately raised her arms like she was conducting an orchestra.

" _Happy birthday to you…_ " Felicity sang, swaying her daughter from side to side. " _Happy birthday to you…_ "

Oliver had Tommy in his arms now, so that they were holding their son and daughter between them while everyone finished the chorus.

" _Happy birthday to you…_ "

Just before they reached the last note, Felicity mouthed _I love you_ to Oliver, and smiled wider than ever when he mouthed it back.

* * *

The noise of the small party had dulled to a pleasant hum in the background — at least, that was what it felt like to Oliver, sitting on the floor by the windows with Felicity, the both of them feeding their children birthday cake.

Oliver thumbed a smear of chocolate from Hazel's round cheek, waiting patiently until she'd finished feeding herself a plastic forkful of cake before he fed her another. Two forks at mealtimes was a routine by now, because if Oliver sat back and let his daughter feed herself, he and Felicity were likely to finish dinner with more food on their clothes and the table than in their children's stomachs.

"Our daughter is going to be an evil genius," Felicity commented, feeding Tommy with a matching fork. "She's only one and she's already mastered the art of double-handed eating."

"I know," Oliver sighed, helping Hazel with the juice cup. "I should probably watch my back."

"Watch Tommy's," Felicity said jokingly, cleaning a stray crumb of cake sticking to her son's face. "If she ends up growing taller than him — we're all doomed."

"Muh," Tommy said, pushing his bowl towards his sister. "Cake."

"Tommy, that's your slice of cake," Felicity said, pulling the bowl away just before Hazel could steal some from it. "Hazel already has some."

Tommy shook his head determinedly and pushed the cake towards his sister again. " _Ha-zel_ ," he said, pronouncing each syllable carefully while looking innocently at his mother, like he wanted her to understand.

Oliver touched the bowl, then Tommy's chest, tracing an invisible line between the two. " _Your_ cake," he explained.

Tommy still looked a little confused. "Oh-kay," he mumbled, and opened his mouth (albeit with some reluctance) to eat his cake.

By the time Oliver went back to feeding Hazel, she ate with careful precision, taking her time to chew and swallow with the complete faith that he'd wait for her, smiling at him in a way that was vaguely smug.

"We are _so_ screwed," Felicity laughed. "You're going to be the dad who spoils his kids, and I don't do well with puppy-eyes. We're going to be total parental pushovers."

"I wouldn't say that," Oliver said dryly, indicating the homemade birthday cake, and the pile of presents. "I think we'll do fine with the discipline. One of us can be the bad cop."

Felicity snorted. "Just remember that I'll crazy-murder you if your idea of _bad cop_ means an obstacle course through the grounds," she said, eyeing him with mock-suspicion. "I saw you staking out archery targets in the trees, Oliver Queen."

_Guilty._

"I don't know what you're talking about," he answered.

Oliver and Felicity smiled at each other, their children sitting between them, one light and one dark, but the four of them happy — happier than anything they'd ever thought possible.

Oliver turned to look at the reddish bloom of the setting sun, disappearing just beyond the treetops at the edge of the grass. The end of another day, with the promise of others to come.

Leaning her head on his shoulder, Felicity stroked Oliver's wedding ring with her thumb, and it was enough — for the things they wanted to say, passed between them with nothing more than an uncomplicated touch.

And the rest?

They had all the time in the world for that.

"It's one hell of a thing we're leaving behind, isn't it?" Felicity said quietly, stroking their daughter's bright hair, their son cradled in her lap.

Oliver lifted his head. "What?" he asked.

Felicity's answering kiss was as soft as a whisper. "A legacy."

**-FIN-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Final Notes:  **
> 
>  
> 
> Ho-ly shit. Would you believe me if I told you that I started Legacies just to have something to do until my finals in May? I swear I thought there was nothing to write about beyond 50-ish chapters and half the word count of You're His Hope. So incredibly wrong. But as always, I REGRET NOTHING. (Not even the difference of 200K words between YHH and Legacies)
> 
> To anyone who ever commented/reviewed/tumblr-asked/tumblr-mailed me in some way — a huge, GIGANTIC thank you. Feedback was never necessary, but it kept the story going whenever I hit a rough patch with the (non-existent) story-mapping. The Legacies We Leave was a lot harder to write than You're His Hope, but it's definitely the piece of work I'm prouder of.
> 
> Twitter support group for Legacies (which apparently exists?) — you're an evil fic writer's dream. My only goal in life has been to cause freak-outs on social media. YAS. Goal accomplished.
> 
> Karlyblack - I'm doing this because I NEED YOU TO WRITE THAT ARROW SECOND GENERATION FIC, OKAY?! Ha. Peer pressure accomplished. Your comments are always super long and detailed and make me laugh so much. In the best way.
> 
> Two lovely ladies I have to mention, because they're insane and helped me brainstorm a lot of the ideas towards the end of the story…
> 
> Pidanka - I have over 600 messages in my inbox because of you. Thanks SO MUCH. Really. I swear that 85% of the smut is your doing, you crazy encouraging human being :)
> 
> Klarolicityswan - your gif reviews always crack me up, including that time you accidentally spoiled the fact that I was gonna middle-name their kid Artemis and we both freaked out. If Barry and Oliver's kids ever end up getting together, it's because of you :D
> 
> The two of you are my gutter-minded spoiler buddy and crazy-supportive cheerleader respectively. Actually, scratch that, the both of you are flipping gutter-minded and I love it. Thank you, times a million. Legacies wouldn't have been finished without you (or it might have, just minus a lot of the fluff and smut, take that how you will).
> 
> I'm not making any promises for a part 3, but I do have a few ideas that might balloon up to the mammoth proportions of Legacies (*whispers* civil war). I know the last chapters have been super time-jumpy, and trust me, I am super open to anyone dropping me a PM or a Tumblr ask about a scene they want me to fill in, because I will. I might just do it myself if the inspiration strikes, but yeah, if there's something you didn't see and you want to - drop me a line and I'll do my best to write it.
> 
> Last, last thing. Season four Olicity is deliriously happy, cute, fluffy, supportive, and perfect. I'm so happy we got here, and I sinceriously hope that we'll always have to question whether we're watching fanfiction or canon when those two are on screen, because it's beautiful. Have a bonkers-happy season four, because you deserve it :)
> 
> Cheers,  
> ChronicOlicity


	98. PSA: Legacies 2.5

**_PSA: This work has been moved. (Not a drill)_ **

**_Thanks to helpful input from readers, I've decided to separate oneshots and fluff stories from the main body of The Legacies We Leave._ **

**_Check out "Legacies 2.5" under the Legacies Series for the collection of prompt responses and general fluffy stuff. Have a great Sunday!  
_ **


End file.
